Table of Contents
PART ONE 8
Love… Die… happy 8
1) Loneliness Takes a Licking 8
2) A Good Citizen Remains Armed 11
3) What ? …Why… ? …Wait 11
STOP BEING AFRAID [OF]… PART ONE 13
4) Grow Up Already 13
5) Hate Crime 14
6) Professors, as a group, really can be the worst of people 14
7) UBI Work Camp (part one) 15
8) Mennonites 15
9) On Nuns and Prostitutes… 17
STOP BEING AFRAID [TO]… PART ONE 18
10) Way Too much Taleb 18
11) Masked Lives Matter 19
12) Defunding the police? 20
13) Power, Corruption and Lies 22
14) Dear Small Business Owner 24
15) What the Hell was I Doing Drinking in LA… at 30 Something 24
16) Tear it All Down Man (part one) 33
17) How Blind Are You? 35
18) I Will Not Become Victim 80,000,001 of the Chinese Communist Party 37
19) When You Need the Police in Seconds… 38
20) Little Green Tomatoes 39
21) Rich Fuckers 44
22) Convocation 2020 45
23) Dear Insider, Friends 47
24) I’m NOT Angry 48
25) Am I even allowed to say this? 49
26) A Separate Category of Acceptance 50
27) Three Ways to Leave 50
28) A Lot to Unpack 51
29) Quarantine Taxi-Cabbie 51
30) I Will Not Tell You 52
31) On Sanctimony 52
32) You will NOT be Saved. You Will SOON Be Dead 53
33) Happy INDEPENDENCE Day!!! 53
34) Be Adult 55
35) The Bush Stained Years 55
36) I’m Sad for Faggots 56
37) Overheard... “If You Torture the Data Long Enough, It Will Confess to Anything.” 57
38) The Last of the Marmora Street Dads 57
39) Images Are Power 58
40) The Founding Father’s Argument 60
41) Assisted Living… that’s Too Good for You, Brother 61
42) Tips 62
43) You are Watching Nothing but a Projection... 63
44) Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane 63
45) How the Hell Are We Ever Going to Fix This Hole? 68
46) RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... 72
47) Welcome to Agenda-Land. 77
48) Racism is a Construct 78
49) Just Who is the Executive Producer 79
50) I Maintain, the Only Way to Counter Misinformation or Disinformation is With More Information 80
51) SECTION 230 - I Was There 80
52) The Natural Human Desire IS to NOT to be Ostracized 81
53) The Righteousness VS The Arrogance. 81
54) Rabbit 84
55) Parallel Worlds 85
56) Remember That Time He Served Him Ice Cream 85
57) Phillip Glass 86
58) Failure of the Law of Increasing Misery to Materialize 86
59) Sabrina Is Off to Engineering School in Los Angeles 87
60) I Am a Liberal 87
61) Judging the Chinese 88
62) A Near Death Experinec on the Bay Bridge in San Francisco 89
63) The Gender Studies Student 91
64) Leaning 92
65) Chinese Board of Directors 92
PART TWO 93
It Came Crashing Down? 93
66) Is Morven Even on the Meter? Just Getting Started in Amey’s Taxi, CAR 29 93
FIND A WAY, BEFORE THE CRASH 95
67) The Boneheads are Back, They all Grumbled 96
BUSTED INTO PIECES 100
68) Battling it Out on the Army Base, ZONE 21 101
WHILE IN BROOKLYN… REALLY? 103
69) We'll Now Be (more) Accepting (of) Leftovers 105
THANKS GUYS! 108
70) That Toot You Hear is the Sound of My Own Horn Tooting… 109
71) A Miserable Nothing Day? 111
72) Heaven n' Home 113
73) Don't be Messin' with the Nickles n' Dimes I Just Fished Outta My New-Found n' Favorite Fishing Hole 115
74) A Routine Job 119
[RESTART THE CRASH STORY HERE] 125
AND WITH A CRACK, HE BROKE THROUGH THE ICE 125
75) I Drove Her Part Way Back to The City This Morning 125
76) A Uniform Love in a (Young & Old) Man’s Heart 126
77) Beautiful Boys... Just Beautiful 129
78) The Good ol’ Day 132
79) God Only Knows 135
80) If God only Knew 138
81) I Don’t Recall Ever Seeing a Solo Goose… What's he After? 142
82) Just A Christmas Day Off n' Alone in CAR 29 143
83) Scottie 145
84) Dear ol’ Dad's, then Mom’s for Christmas Dinner... this Year 146
Weather or Not 151
Not Another Dream Job? 156
Finally, a Little Fear and Maybe Way Too Much Loathing on the Way, a Way Out to Old Collin’s Bay 160
There It Is 183
Jackpot 189
The Pelt Market is Down, Again 200
It Seamed a Clear Victory for Chivalry Along Victoria One Sunday Morning 204
My Mama Done Told Me… (revisited) 213
PART THREE SUGAR FREE 219
85) Levitation 219
86) Let Me Ask a Question... Does This Day Really Mean Anything to You? 220
87) A Cartoon Version Of Yourself 222
88) Wait, Simply 222
89) Hate Crime 223
90) University Professors 224
91) Overton Window Washer 224
92) Can I Practice an Argument Here? 225
93) Law and Ethics 225
94) Time Machine Hitler Killers 226
95) Another Censorship Question 227
SUGAR FREE [PART ONE] 227
96) With Regards to Homeless Camps 229
97) Living Well Rather Than Just Not Dying 231
98) I Hope this Doesn’t Destroy You 232
99) Q 232
100) Definitions, Conspiracies and Theories 233
SUGAR FREE [PART TWO] 234
101) Notes on Sexual Equality (or Equity) 236
102) Found: My Favourite Mindless Stunt 236
103) You Cannot Stop Them 237
104) Quote: Long Gone 238
105) Some People did Something, Twenty Years Later 238
106) An Accurate Watch 239
107) The Crying Eyes of a Child 240
108) A Note for the First Day of School 240
109) Press Circles 241
110) Power Game Again 241
111) A Toast 242
112) Insults, it’s How Men Learn 243
SUGAR FREE [PART THREE] 244
113) Silly Political Stuff 245
114) The Gentle Jew? Really? 246
115) Tear it all Down Man 246
116) Born Dying 247
117) To Those Who’ve Never Bothered to Read a Book 248
118) There’s a Funny Thing About Those Whose Ideas are Never Noticed 248
119) Look this Gem Up Some Day 248
120) Let’s Call it the Not Quite Annual nor Regular Constitutional Shakedown Tour 248
121) The Difference Between a Hoax and a Farce 249
SUGAR FREE [PART FOUR] 249
122) Please Stop (to be finished) 251
123) Censorship is Really Just an Act of Fear 254
124) Astroturf Uprisings 255
125) Cockroaches and Marketing 255
126) It's Never the Noise that Kills Us Dead 257
127) Whiny Bitch 258
128) It's Called a Hunch… Buddy 259
129) The Alcoholic Genie Joke 260
130) The Hasidic Jew Joke 261
131) The Order in Which We Learn Things 262
132) A Crime Against the Listener 263
133) That Guy Really Liked Cheese 264
134) Just Let Things Go 265
135) Tinder Please, I’m and Old Man 265
136) Dreaming of Jim 265
137) Authenticity 267
138) Enough for the Flat Earther Already 267
139) The Pageantry of Coercion 268
140) I Found this Somewhere Along my Travels: Why Carry a Gun 269
141) Transactions ARE Human 272
142) It Will Come from Business 273
143) They WILL Track Us 273
144) Pissed off America 274
145) Institutions Crumble? 275
146) Mush 276
SUGAR FREE [PART FIVE] 276
147) The Guy on the Stoop 278
148) Rappino & Coercion 279
149) Her Very Last Day 279
150) Offend Someone, NOW 280
151) I am Not Buying Into this Silly Class War 281
152) There is No Proof 281
153) My Opinion 282
154) Who is More Loathsome? 282
155) I am NOT now, nor will I ever be Anti-Yarmulka 283
156) Under the Bus, The Story of a Bad Bad Mayor 283
157) I Will Keep My Nose Out of your Business 284
158) Saad is Happy 284
159) Death of a Friend 287
160) Indians 288
161) Terms of Bigotry 288
162) The Left Right Swindle 289
163) Climate Changes, So What? 290
164) A Seriously Huge Admission 290
165) Censorship is Out of Control 290
166) Belittling Motherhood 291
167) Any Sovereign Nation 291
168) Putting Words in Their Mouth 292
169) Three Gorges Damn Collapse 293
170) Pretty Bold Move 293
171) Meeting Santiago 294
172) It’s All Garbage 296
173) There’s No Church in Rome 296
174) The Victory Celebration 296
175) The World is Far More Interesting at 5 AM in the Morning Than it is at 5 AM at Night 296
176) Echo 296
177) Give Yourself Permission to Believe in Things You Know are Probably Not True 296
178) You are not alone (Little Green Tomatoes Revisited) 296
SUGAR FREE [PART SIX] 297
PART ONE
Love… Die… happy
The old wandering man with a deep n’ distinctly Canadian radio voice led me straight to the door of this old building; old as in it was one of those ugly early 1970's lump of form-molded now mouldering cement basically charmless old buildings. I stepped inside another nondescript glass double doorway, just like every other apartment doorway I’ve stepped into of late. An airless air-locked vestibule with a panel of apartment buzzer-buttons stretched from here onto almost well, just over there. Random code numbers not matched with any specific apartment nor any place else in space, time or… really. I pressed all the buttons I could with the palm of my hand, if even just to see what might happen. The door lock buzzed once, then twice… a third time “who is it?” crackled over the muffled tin eared old speaker; it didn’t matter, I was already inside the inside glass double doors and on into the entranceway corridor.
These apartment lobbies never cease to amaze me. Arranged as if people might actually gather in here. An uncomfortable chair there, far too far away from the ugly unmatched couch over here. A French Regal knock off of a coffee table in-between; so ill spaced it would take even the tallest of someones a hearty lean n’ lurch inwards just to reach someone’s now getting too cold cup of coffee… A bank of four elevators, none yet on the ground floor. A small wait as I fixed on an idea of just what it was I’d get up to. That old man with the deeply distinctive Canadian radio voice may have led me here, but he didn’t leave me a clue as to what I might do. On into the elevator, the one second from the left… no thirteenth floor, we’ll head on up to fourteen, meh, it’s all just the same… each floor upon floor upon floor and on upwards, all just the same as this mis-numbered thirteenth.
As I stepped off the elevator, feet firmly planted onto a well trampled down overly vacuumed still dirt laden body-oil n’ sweat stained old carpet; with a pattern so ridiculous I won’t bother to describe it. All at once taken aback by the far too familiarly spiced-pungent smell of poorly prepared ethnic cooking. A wretched smell with no specific geography, just for certain not from anywhere remotely near here. I went left down the hallway, the numbers shrinking down in my direction, growing back up to the left. At the end of the hall I found a door not locked but unopened. Why not, I was here, so I went on inside.
A spartan arrangement of more mismatched furnishings. Too stuffed couches and a recliner propped upright right in front of the TV… It was on, with volume turned down, I didn’t recognize the show it was airing. I wandered around what little there was to wander around in. A peek out the balcony window, the bedroom strewn with a least a week’s worth of unwashed clothing. An odor, faint at first seemed to swell as I approached what was likely the bathroom. I braced myself for forest greens or flamingo pinks and an un-flushed and stained stinky toilet.
Of course I was obviously a little surprised to find that old hag Mrs. Brown faced down on the, oddly enough bone white tiled floor. Her bluing hair matted in a clot of blood that had circled her head as if it was just a bit frightened to ooze out much further. A naked lump of a lady in a quite unlady-like arrangement; feet bent up backwards, dangling inside the bathtub. The torn off the rod shower curtain clutched in her now cold n’ stiff wee little wrinkled old hand. No foul play. Just a sad slip and one less lonely old lady waits, getting colder, for some long-lost uncaring family member to notice she hadn’t called to complain for a few too many more days than as per usual… I let her be. First closing the slit of a lightless bathroom window so that the stench of her death might leak more quickly into and mix with the odor of the ill prepared ethnic cooking down the hallway. Someone would notice soon enough I figured as, I had, twice before.
Down at the other end of this hallway the Baxters were at it again. He’d started drinking for the very last time again early that morning. Mrs. Baxter’s tears of enragement swelling up as she told him at the top of her lungs this was it, for the very last time… all over again like the last time. I had an immediate and eerie premonition that we’d be reading of Baxter’s well timed and well planned in advance suicide in the morning papers one evening later that week. Above the Baxters ol’ Ralph Simmons was having an uneasy sleep in his easy chair in front of a TV that hadn’t worked properly for ages. Next door, apartment 15B, the sweet-hearted Mistress Patricia, the building’s Dominatrix was turning most likely her 1000th trick; “NO SEX” claimed her advertisement. Apparently that was just to ensure guaranteed and regular insertion on the back pages of the local entertainment weekly. I guess someone somewhere still lives up to some standard through even all this… somehow they do it.
The elevator bell dinged to let off some people; signalling the right time to duck into the stairwell. I’d rather I’d not had been seen wandering around all alone here in these hallways. The next best thought to go through my mind was to head for the rooftop to see if this lonely old dump of a place filled with lonely dumpy old people would afford me a view. Brilliant as I found no lock nor alarm, so in a breeze I was outdoors again, in utter relief just to breathe. I’d felt no sadness having seen the old hag Mrs Brown faced down in her final un-lady-like posture; nor any anxious anxiety having listened to the Baxter’s have at it again. I just wanted out of here and into some fresher air on this very cold winter’s evening… heading towards the edge of the building to have a good look, without even thinking I took one giant lurch of a leap up and over the…
As I drifted on upwards, the dump of a place shrunk before me in perspective against the snow covered mound upon which it uneasily rested. I was surprised not to find it nestled into a more likely clump, or is it cluster, of developer-densified, un-stylishly cheap-assed lower middle class highrise housing apartment might be situated in the projects… It stood there all by its lonesome, totally on it’s own; on it’s perch on the bald of this barron rounded mound. No other buildings, no strip mall nor plaza nor another split level ranch style house within miles in either direction.
Off in the distance the sights and sounds of three bright n’ shiny well washed firetrucks racing toward the place caught my attention. Growing louder now and with an urgent official like vigor, they pulled up alongside this crummy old apartment. The reddest of red fire engine paint jobs glistened alongside the all day with nothing better to do polished chrome. Washed wiped n’ waxed to the point where one could barely stand to stare into it, lest catch a glimpse of themselves they’d rather not see. A burly gruff of a well uniformed fireman stepped out of the first truck walking more slowly than one might have expected. He looked at the plaque bearing numbers indicating the address above the outside glass double doorway that lead to the vestibule too full of apartment buzzing buttons. With a turn to his mates, a nod in agreement, he pulled out a match, struck it and lit the shit-hole on fire. It went up like a light, like a late summer’s Lower East Side tinder-box ghetto disaster n’ poof… it was gone. That lonely dump of a place, dumped full of lonely people with so little left to do they’d stopped doing anything at all ages ago… It was gone in a flash puff of odorless smoke and good riddance. Except for Mr. Baxter not a single one of those sad lonely souls survived it… of course they’d all lost their battle to live to that loneliness in that lonely building oh so many long years ago…
How we loved mocking these fools, these idiots vacating their better seats while filing for the exits at the end of the 7th or in the middle of the 8th. Vacating the “better seats” that we’d so happily slip down the stands and into for the more interesting parts of the game. Looking back, it’s with a little pity that I recall the things these people would have missed. The comeback obviously, but even more so, the little moments; the “could this be the comeback” conversations, talking through each of winning scenarios, always knowing that I indeed this one would be, indeed the one for the history books.
It was in pursuit of these stories, these threads n’ histories that had Kevin and I at Wrigley Field one afternoon and down to old Comiskey Park later that evening. It was one of those late game abandoned seat vacancies that found Kevin and I sitting directly on top of the wall in right field for a lazy long fly ball catch to end the game; a lazy fly ball we could have caught ourselves if we weren’t that good and respectful of fans. We sat in similar vacated seats with less than a few hundred diehard souls in the “mistake by the lake”, the stadium built for 80,000, finding ourselves right on top of the dugout as our team lost in the bottom of the 11th after a two-hour rain delay and just before a gloriously wretched, late-night four-hour drive back from Cleveland to Toronto. Later that same year, or maybe the next, perhaps ‘87 or ‘88 we sat in our very own and totally shitty North Grandstand seats, sharing a sad smoke with ol’ Georgie, him, a mere four hundred plus yards down the left field line on the dugout steps but, right there with us,sitting, smoking for a whole hour after the losing end of one of the more beautiful season of baseball we’d ever shared.
I saw my very last ever baseball game from the “short porch” as the Yankees lost the World Series on the very last pitch of the game. The very last games of World Series baseball ever played at the very old stadium.
Just who are these folks leaving a game in the middle of the eighth or even yet, well before the seventh inning stretch? They’ll tell you they want to beat the rush to the subway, get their car out of the lot. They’ll convince themselves and tell ya, “this game’s so already over” as they rush to the next unpleasant moment in their pitiful little life. They’ll remind you of the important things they’ve scheduled for themselves that night or first thing in their the next anxiously awaited for day. Things to never get done and people to barely really see in a self-important blur. A life full of empty unfinished business and moments missed while arranging a meeting in front of the person to which they only really get to say, “sorry, I’ve gotta go”.
Is there a touch of arrogance in their most definitely knowing how things will turn out? They’re good to go as who’d dare mount a comeback in their absence? I’ve been right all these times before, how on earth could anything not happen exactly as I’ve envisioned it will… “in my unshakable understanding of the future”; a future spent explaining how things went exactly as you knew they would rather than how you said they would last night.
Like baseball, it’s taken me a little bit longer to learn that absolutely nothing has or will ever unfold exactly the way I thought it would. Many things have, thankfully unfolded much better many more unfolding in ways that, if predicted precisely, wouldn’t have been nowhere near as marvellous. Un-predictions, impatience and the ill begotten management of expectations has led me down some of life’s better roads. An old flame once said, “I always leave a little undone before leaving each night so that I know where to begin again the next morning”. This might be one of the wisest things I’ve ever been told. “Be happiest not knowing how that day will end” may be wiser yet. Knowing to “stay with the game” until the bitter or its most beautiful, unexpected ending might just be the wisest way of all. I mean, what’s a life if you can’t bear to wait even just a few more moments more for it to be… truly, and so satisfyingly… over?
STOP BEING AFRAID [OF]… PART ONE
“The best is kinda the enemy of the good”. Perfection is an honorable pursuit, but God blesses those with the greatest of ideas and sense enough to know, it’s good enough to start working on what comes… next.
We are being forced to become totally dependent on “them” to protect us from one another. We are being used, used against each other in order to ensure their power over us.
But go ahead, run around thinking everyone is a racist while you’re not. The truth is you are not a racist, neither am I, nor are the vast majority of our fellow citizens. The racists are the power hungry who work to divide us using accusations of racisim as their weapon... This will not end well for us, for them or… for anyone.
After calming down a bit, I found Jake and his wife directly behind me in line, and asked them sardonically, hoping for them to be my compatriots in anger, "where are you NOT-headed today?"
"We're off to Pennsylvania" Jake replied happily. Paying no attention to the anger dripping from my question. His pleasant smile mirrored in his wife’s demeanor took the punch right outta me.
I'd ridden these buses with the Amish for years now; and, oddly enough, never had never taken the opportunity to 'brake' the silence and ask even this simple a question. Jake's reply was my first chance ever to get in there and muckity-muck it up with a man from the clan of the hand-sewn suit. Jake and I kibitzed about his community here in Canada as compared to the community there in Pennsylvania. He was from there but had moved here and was headed back there to visit family he’d left behind there. He mentioned that he’d moved from there because they'd run out of space for him to establish his own farm there. He was fascinated to hear I’d lived in NYC was interested in my experiences there and my stories of moving to and from here and there… He was fascinated with my having been living in the city during the terrorist attack; I think my account was more personal than he might of expected and, his reaction seemed to open him up a bit more than normal… this opening gave me the courage to ask of him… “so, do many of your kids leave the community”… ? … “what's the response in the community… what does the community think if they come back?"
"Oh sure, there are a few who decide they need to see what it's like out here…"
He did implied that most of them will wander back eventually. He was amazed that any of us could put up with what we have out here…he seemed genuinely fascinated by out here, but with no honest interest in living out here whatsoever. He was a very pleasant fella, eager to chit chat, he was genuinely amazed over my having only the one son against his fathering of five… plus his five girls.
We chuckled when he assured me "he had no internet
His wife was nice and seemed somewhat younger than how old she looked. She smiled as we two fellas spoke. With respect to my understanding of their practices, I did not speak to her directly and didn't ask her any questions. Our eyes met briefly a few times and I threw her a glance or two to invite her into mine and Jake's conversation… an invitation unaccepted. She never once spoke but she smiled, nodded now and again. She had a nice, strong quiet smile.
Now, I still know very little about these Amish-Mennonites, is it, faith? Jake informed me it was ancient, German and Christian in origin… definitely Christian. Was his quiet wife happy behind her smile and her hand-fashioned blue bonnet? Later, after our bus had been delayed one, more, time… after we'd been led back to the chairs in the waiting room, I found her furiously scrawling notes onto a well-worn stack of papers… recipes? A to do list? Which of the chicken's needed to be fed which kids need to be bathed, hugged or spanked… her thoughts, her prayers, her stories? I'll never know, maybe all of the above, most likely the latter.
I'll never know if she's a happy woman. I'll never know if she's fulfilled, complete… whether she wears her blue bonnet because she wants or needs to, whether it’s because she's been told to or if it’s all she really knows. It’s pretty much all I can do is look at her smile and assume… she's happy… enough.
Funny enough, just after meeting Jake and his wif on the way to Pennsylvania… I caught a meme floating around the internet…
My most significant interactions with "the nuns" was to wish them a good morning as they collected the Times from the stoop of Our Lady of Pompeii, the Catholic church upon whose said stoop I’d sit upon while reading my news when waited for my gal to open her street market on Bleecker on all those good and glorious Saturday and Sunday mornings a way back when. The nuns always had a warm smile… that nun smile, that all-knowing-nun smile that would make even the most innocent man feel, just a bit guilty.
We’d share our smiles, the num’s smiles at the grace and the glory of their god I suppose. Mine at the grace of an opportunity to take a little me moment while my gal prepared our boy for another wonderfully hectic dad-day up in our apartment across the street. Just a couple of friendly people commenting on the pleasantness of a quiet morning moment in the West Village.
Sad to say honestly, I've had far more interactions with prostitutes than nuns over the years. Conversations and questions asked... I've shared coffee talk with some of the gals and I’ve have had friends who’ve had taken up the trade in support of this venture… or that. I’ve known a few nice gals who’ve paid their pay a bill to, sigh... A few of them have told tall tales of "empowerment"; but I’ve heard for more sad stories of utter coercion and surrender. I've concluded, obviously its nasty business… either way.
The reason I’m even bringing these two situations up, side by side are recent conversation that suggest both practices, nunnery and hookering are somehow both a form of prostitution. I've found myself troubled by these conversations. In some cases the protagonists have argued the being a hooker is quite possibly the better choice
As a man, I must ask myself… what good comes of my asking over the wisdom of choices of a woman? Who am I to serve as judge vaguely whether either the practice of being a nun or a prostitute is a good choice for any woman? Who am I to add my male voice to the voices of clergy, the husband, the client… the pimps, that echoes in these women's minds? Most certainly I can address and raise concerns and comment on the coercion I've seen in the latter… but question the faith of the former? Equate this faith with what I perceive to be the sadness of a life of prostitution? …never able to raise a concern without seeming to make a judgement, at all.
Perhaps these conversations raise a point I am missing… I have been known to miss a point or few. I guess all I can really hope is for that the woman in the penguin suits, the blue bonnets and whatever the prostitutes wears or doesn't is able to speak out and seek out some help and guidance. Able to inform us that their choice was not wise, that their choice was not theirs, and that their smile is not genuine… If they do, I hope they've found we've given them a place to go.
STOP BEING AFRAID [TO]… PART ONE
Given that I drive on average, 70,000km per year, the likelihood of my being a driving fatality can be represented as 0.0035 in 1. Apparently, the number of people, aged 50 to 60 that die after contracting COVID after all these months is 0.0025 in 1. This leaves me with a 71% greater risk of killing myself by driving than from dying from COVID… if I get it.
As for getting it… Having picked up 4,123 UBER fares since last March 13th (the beginning of our quarantine here in Canada) with each fare including say 1.25 people, it looks like I’ve had 5,154 “contacts”, not including visits with David, William my sister and mother…Obviously, it’s not like I’m not doing everything I can to check the math for the previous equation.
Let’s summarize this foolishness by saying, I’d be pretty “Anti-Fragile” if I let myself be “Fooled by Randomness” enough to believe that even with so little “Skin in the Game” I’m not still as yet subject to the possibility of a “Black Swan” and dying from COVID… If I were a betting man though, I’d still bet on… wrong turn.
As with many other social philosophies, I like to break things down orbitally. What is my personal responsibility in policing myself, my family, my neighbourhood? What’s my role in protecting the community at large, my city and so on. Starting with myself isn’t a narcissistic, selfish position, it’s more the idea that, you can’t be useful to the group if you’re not a useful person. What is my individual responsibility to the group is what I’m going with here. How about we try the air safety example as an illustration here; you really should, as the folder in the seat back pocket describes, put your oxygen mask on before assisting others. (duh, otherwise you die from lack of oxygen beforehand, moron).
Again, starting at the starting point, let’s look at policing myself. Indeed, your worst assumption is correct, I will be going straight to open carry. But why? Well, isn’t the first priority of any security force, army, militia, police et al to defend, deter? A large percent of petty theft is deterred by a lock on the door, this may even be a greater deterrence than fear of being caught. Another deterrent, a worry a potential criminal might carry is that his bad behavior will be met with swift and deadly force. In many instances, this might likely be the best deterrent of all. So, lets ask ourselves, how much would it cost to arm and train every adult citizen in the use of personal firearms? Let start with a one-time cost of say, $500 or so for the best handgun ever… A solid initial safety training program, with a class size of maybe 15 to 20 souls; add secondary excellence and marksmanship training… who knows exactly but, likely way less, pennies on the dollar when compared to the previously mentioned $414/capita per year it now costs to police each Canadian. AND, we’re not talking about training ALL Canadians, nor sending them to class every year!
That covers the first orbit, the personal orbit. What about all those other orbits? Well, first off, knowing all my good neighbours are well armed and well trained, certainly makes my neighbourhood a safer place. Know that every crossing guard, bus driver, teacher and janitor could and would take swift and lethal action would leave me extremely confident that my children are safe. I’d feel more relaxed knowing my wife had a gun on her hip to deter any potential rapist or kill ‘em if they made their play. Obviously, I know the rapist would be armed as well, and that? That’s simply the next step, in my plan to “defund the police”… threat detection.
OK, so posit that this well-armed and well trained citizenry will eliminate a vast percentage of threat. However, as it stands in the world as it is today’s, even with a well-armed, well trained police force, some criminal bozo, some Jim Bob n’ Billy Joe, is still gonna try; still going to take that chance to get their liquor n’ smokes for free; andnrob the cash register while they’re at it, right?
This is where some new thinking will be required in the courts. Now that the entire citizenry is armed Lets consider this, every potential criminally violent altercation could result in a swift and lethal outcome, death or permanent disability. This being so, every threat of criminal action should and must be treated as a capital crime. The penalty should always be severe as any capital crime committed today. That rapist may have survived the six of nine rounds my wife put into his leg and chest, but it’s the last chance he’ll ever get to attempt “suicide by citizen (policing)”… in some jurisdictions, I’m sure they’d just finish him off on the chair or table, in mine, I’d vote to let him suffer through and lick his wounds behind bars for the remainder of his pathetic little life. Of course, there’s something to be said here for doing away with prisons, and just letting him wandered through these well-armed streets, now unarmed… maybe in uniquely marked clothing, perhaps a huge target on his back.
A final thought depends on the courts. Considering again my wife and her would be rapist; Juries are going to need to be swayed the right way when it comes to benefiting the doubt while adjudicating what actually happened on that lonely, darkened street. Did Jim really jump Jane from behind the bushes? Or was it the first date on their hushed tryst behind my back? A dalliance gone wrong? Maybe Karen, er… I mean Jane had second thoughts, maybe she just didn’t like the cut of Jim’s COVID mask. I’d hate to be that jury if Jim were black and Jane were white, or vis-versa… um, what’s that got to do with “defunding the police”?
These are fundamental security issues. Personal and community issues. Between the city, the Provincial and Federal authorities, I’m currently being policed by three different agencies split between a myriad of services from traffic laws to bi-laws and criminal law. All I want is to secure my family, my neighbourhood, my property and keep drugs out of my children’s hands. Obviously, I think we spend far too much. AND now it would seem, many people think we’re trusting the wrong people to do it these things we need, so, indeed… why NOT just do it ourselves? In the end, who else can you trust but your own good judgment… and a loaded side arm! …I mean, in the end.
So let’s start the lively conversation. Any questions? How about an example question… Q: Why not make guns illegal? A: Who’s going to ‘police’ that law?
Isn’t that all this is really? Just another childish power play? I mean that’s my two cents this morning anyway. Seventy-five years since the end of last big power grab, yawn, one group attempts to arrest that power. The power the establishment so fervently tried consolidating over all these years… I’ll just get this out of the way right here, right now. It’s never about what we, us peons appear to be fighting for, it’s what they’re fighting for behind our back. While they have us fighting one another, they’re winning ground hand over fist, day after day.
I don’t think they actually know that it never ever really works. I mean their capturing total power for like, forever. Of course, given current technologies, anyone with the power to control communication, genetics and most thought might just maybe get really close to pulling it off, for good, but... OK, they were able to sell us these mind control tracking devices by telling us they were “smart phones”… but… are they really that close to the grand prize? Are they really that clever? Are we that completely stupid?
The good news I’m hearing. That viral lockdown maneuver didn’t work. And given they’ve gone back to having us all worked up and yelling at each other over the same old meaningless crap, I’m left wondering if they’re grasping at straws and really have nothing left… I’d fully expect more spectacular mass shootings even if every one of them after Vegas seemed to be such an utter dud (Do you even recall, that distant news story where a man, with 20+ some odd sub machine guns, fired on a crowd, from a smashed open Vegas hotel window disappeared from news cycle in four days, before anyon was formally even charged… remember that? What happed to that?)… What about the most recent crashing plane? Everything feels like a meaningless one off really. Even speculating over the frightening scenario of the destruction of one of our major cities, or a civilization destroying EMP blast just seem like, yawn, I guess cards they might just play. Seems to me, we’d be over any n’ all that in a matter of days, if not hours… these days.
Really, what a great time to be alive. Here we are, us lucky buggers, bearing witness to the latest, greatest and by far most pivotal of all power struggles. The most recent attempt to “gain all”, 1914–45 wiped out hundreds of millions. This one might not take as long but could easily take out way ay more of us little folk and, worse it could take the one thing we can never surrender, that last precious drop of personal liberty. We’ve never had very much, but really, honestly, truly, could you even imagine the living hell it would be to give up what little we’ve ever had? So… Good morning, folks! Wake up! It’s a brand-new day! Back at ‘er. And never give up, never stop fighting and… but …hey, what’s that shiny thingy over there?
“…What the hell am I doin’ drinking in LA at…” this old song, kind of hip, sorta hop, kind of electric n’ soulfully smooth brought back a memory, not my best memory, a memory that had lay in waiting to be re-remembered for a long while since its last time remembered. One of those crazed ol’ drinking day memories; certainly neither the highest of hi-lights of my drinking career nor my career-career for that matter. Just another easily could have been lost little memory. A little bit of fun had another lifetime ago.
The song sent images and scenes of utter recklessness from a moment in time before my second and third marriages. A time before the second and final attempts to become a New Yorker. That old Bran Van 3000 song… A nice memory of a odd time, when I just happened to find myself in a nice place called LA… that sudden flush feeling? That’s the feeling one gets when remembering something that maybe didn’t play out quite right, didn’t go as I thought it might and definitely not as I would have eventually liked to remember it going… like many memories of newly single men, a situation that probably should have been played, differently.
For some strange reason I’d been given the opportunity to travel to LA to visit the ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada), Kim Campbell, in this big ol’ house which they’d provided for her as kind of bask-handed thank you for being the First Woman Prime Minister of Canada. I’m pretty sure it was one of those “get her the hell out of here, now” kind of political appointments. A quick fix; let’s make her Canada’s liaison to the stars before anyone notices that all we wanted of The First Woman Prime Minister of Canada was to complete her assignment to kill conservative party politics in Canada for a decade (or more). And just like that, there I was, at her place, in LA, all suited up in my best skinny panted suit. All Dick Van Dyke’d like and ready to roll with the rollers, sippin’ wine and munchin’ on canopé in the house of the Canadian attaché to this, that or something culturally sounding woo-ha-ha… A pleasant spot to leave Canada’s First Woman Prime Minister who’s no longer needed or wanted… in Canada.
Looking around upon my un-announced un ceremonial arrival, I should have noticed that the complete lack of any real “brand name” A, B or C list stars. Not even one of those transplanted, hard to remember Canadian stars, the one’s who never readily admit to even being Canadian. Indeed, this lack of stars was a bit telling; Little did I suspect up my arrival that I would learn later that night… there were far more glorious stars to be enjoyed in old LA. Stars well beyond those missing from Prime Minister Kim’s backyard industry shin-dig-get-together.
When I attend a soiree such as this one, one of either two party-personalities is likely to show up; I’ll either be that quiet guy standing over there, you know, all by himself, or the not so quiet but not annoyingly noisy guy, the gob-handed and yickity-yacking guy looking for anyone and/or everyone willing to listen to whatever gibberish is dripping outta my mismatched brain n’ mouth at any particular given moment. As I recall, at this particular soiree, I came as the all by himself over there kinda guy. I was mostly lost, invisible even, behind the enormous girth of my two new business partner’s egos. Standing alongside these old movie-biz wanna-bees, suffering the sheer stupidity of their thnking it would be a fine idea to drag me, the relative youngster across the country so they could canoodle with their inbred-industrial money-burnin’ movie-making assholes; the folks they looked at lovingly as good-friends from “the Industry” but who actually cared little, if anything for them – I further recall, quite vividly that, although I was not gob handing big-wigs or spouting gibberish to potential business partners, I was indeed, generally, having a very good time quietly talking… to the staff.
Being recently un-married and singled, and in LA and younger than most who’d shown up to this soiree and almost as stupid as I’d ever been… I found myself oogling the only pretty good-looking babe that had appeared at the party. Apparently, the First Woman Prime Minister of Canada’s parties didn’t draw much in the way of the cliché bevy of broads and/or dames out here in the Hollywood (in the 1990s). Although it was the quieter me who’d shown up, I was able to pull off a few manoeuvres and soon found myself in a wonderfully pleasant conversation with one of our First Woman Prime Minister’s personal assistants. I have no recollection of this young lady’s age or name. All I can recall is that the conversation was bright n’ lively. She was younger than me and shared a similar suspicion of the crowd we were in and… I’m pretty sure she was a brunette.
I haven’t a clue how it all happened; I guess I’d let drop that I had plans for later, great big plans. Whether I asked her or she simply decided to tag along, I don’t recall; likely the latter as I’m dreadful at “the pick-up” lines. My strategy to that point in my life was to just sit at the bar, be as intention-less as possible and, see if anyone notices and maybe asks a question that might lead to… something else. I think this strategy has worked all of once, other than apparently, this time…
For the sake of this story, let’s call this gal, Prime Minster Kim’s personal assistant say, Alice. After dispatching ourselves from this way more borin g than one might have hoped an LA movie-maker party might be, Alice and I ended up in my rental car. A not at all too Macho Mustang convertible… and then, off we went to… see the stars.
This wasn’t my first time in LA. The first time I went to LA, I didn’t have the slightest clue. My small town Ontario/Toronto upbringing and limited travel to only eastern or near-mid-western American cities left me to assume that all American cities were more or less laid out the same. If you simply looked hard enough you’d find another nice little neighbourhood, a nest of streets compacted with this restaurants, “that bar” you’d been looking for, that nice neighborhood with just enough things to do before wanting to saunter off to the next nice neighbourhood that would be right over there just beyond the next street over from here, or there.
The first time I took a cab in LA, the driver seemed a bit stunned when we asked him to drop us off on, in no particular place, just somewhere along the Sunset Strip, anywhere, you know, where the action is… in the neighborhood. He dropped us at, who knows where? I think the address was something like 10,678 Sunset; and after walking forever, we found a place for a beer at, like, 7,456 Sunset Boulevard… after repeating this -700 dollars in cab fare- more times, and after miles of walking.
This time around, on this, my second trip to LA, I rented s car. The aforementioned not in any way shape or form, too Macho Mustang convertible.
So here we were, Alice and I, after leaving the soiree, cruising the freeways of LA towards… Out of the city at super high speeds.
Before leaving for LA, I’d conducted a semi-extensive chat-room search and found where the party kids might be have one of their clandestine little parties while I was in LA… to party. Post-divorced, freshly minted and self-described up n coming business tycoon me didn’t really enjoying the nightclub crowd. I had fallen in with a more “underground” dance party-n-raver scene. A somewhat more clandestine crowd that had took root in Toronto in the late 90s. I guess Alice had thought it might be fun to help me in this silly out of towner, middle-aged-man’s quest to drive well beyond the city limits in search of the third dry lake bed on the left, miles from nowhere, some wickedly out-of-place in search of his newly acquired online chat-room raver pals… You know, the kids with glo sticks… the kids who’d be all doped up.
We got to the dry lakebed in good time but it felt like hours trying to actually find the kids away out there in the middle of the third dry lake bed on the left. We eventually stumbled upon twenty or so of them dancing alongside a make-shift Jeep-Trunk stereo-DJ super-sound-system-setup. All of ‘em fully into their glo-stick juggling and shimmy-shaking while marvelling at the tall tale I spun describing how me, this Dick Van Dyke suited Canadian fella and some sweet woman named Alice had managed to maneuver through the dessert and get an none too macho Mustang up and over the ruts on the roads leading to the dry lake so we could crash their little private party out in the pitch black middle of the night in the absolute middle of nowhere somewhere north of the City of LA out on a freaking dry lake bed under the… freakishly beautiful stars – We were kind of surprised we’d made it ourselves I guess… and pretty much, after about ten minutes turned right around, and headed back to the city.
It's fondly I recall the quiet ride back to LA. A couple of lost “once were kids” in an open car, laughing to themselves a little bit; not really talking, likely totally exhausted and dying to get back to wherever it was they could simply shower and jump into bed. It didn’t go as you might be imagining… I dropped her at some lonely suburban semi-bungalow out along the freeway. She pointed me in the direction of my hotel in Santa Monica and thanked me for a wonderful evening. I sped away halfway back from totally exhausted and thinking how lucky I was to meet such a wonderfully nice person… Thinking of the stars that hung so damned close over that dry lakebed you felt the need to put the top up on your open car lest bang your forehead on one of them. That totally rough rutted road had ruined my semi-slick not too tough or macho at all Mustang convertible. I n the morning I found it completely covered in dry lakebed sand (luckily with no dents in the paint job). I cringe wondering just how close I’d come to ruining a moment by dropping a silly line in an attempt to manoeuvre the night were it wasn’t meant to go… just a nice drive back to my hotel room, to shower and sleep and then hit the AOL chat boards again to find out where best to look for “more kids” and to find next night’s wild-n-fun goofy little party…
…I found them. Or perhaps… they found me.
Is it just wasted years after ones first marriages? How many years, how much is wasted on the wrong people? I don’t know how many fellas I know who wake up to find the girl they’d love forever just up and left them. Knowing they’re not perfect, they’re left wondering just which flaw of theirs triggered the departure? Was it the getting up every day to go to work to pay for all this shit? Was it the scraping all the energy left at the end of one’s day to show a little attention to her dumbest of problems? Maybe it was that you’re only able to muster enough interest to appear semi motivated while kind of enjoying a weekend doing exactly what she wanted to do (?) Which ever holy-horrible flaw it was, there they go, these first wives, off to do much better, you… ? …what were you left with? A strange night under the stars… ? …maybe, if you’re lucky I guess.
The next night I followed the instructions I’d found on the AOL chats and drove all alone a way way south of the City; down to the Orange County arena, a place where they’d throw the annual orange growers agricultural show… More kids, more dance music, ecstasy… a handful of it.
In this period of my bizarre post marriage stupor, I’d developed a pretty strong hankering for MDMA. I call it a hankering as, I really don’t think one can really be addicted to what I called those, strong drugs, mushrooms, acid and e. Oh, I’m sure the addiction researchers would argue, so I won’t. I’ll just admit that my wife leaving left a big hole and a bigger chunk of time that I decided to fill with the chemical concoctions of the day. In the waning days of the 1990s in Toronto the rave scene was a raging, money was beginning to flow again, my company was beginning to grow. It really did look like my company could “make a go” so away I went as if that was a certainty. Without a wife to pin me down or demand a purpose… she was off doing way better without me and I’d convinced myself I was better off for it.
A kinda bizarre or maybe just sadly funnier part of this story… Just how did I arrange to end up with a handful of ecstasy in LA? I certainly wasn’t going to risk having to find the baggy-pants kid with the floppy hat who sold the shit while at the same time trying to find my way around down there so, I brought some with me. Yes, over the border.
The night before flying down, here was me, drinking at the kitchen table emptying vitamin B capsules, dumping half the powder out, mixing in the ecstasy and closing them back up in a fashion that made them appear untampered with. Like I was any good at this. “Um, ya officer, I don’t know how these schedule A narcotics got mixed into the vitamin B bottle in my shaving kit. Can I go to LA now? I’m scheduled to meet the Former, First Lady Prime Minister of Canada tomorrow…” Wouldn’t that have been fun. (My real problems at the border would actuall happen decades late.)… A smuggled handful of ecstasy spent driving the LA freeways in a rented Mustang on the way to and from the Orange County arena. A divorced guy in convertibles in LA, cruising the freeways, can there truly be a bigger asshole?
The next day, Sunday morning, oh those glorious Sunday mornings after those nights of total debauchery… it’s like looking for something you weren’t ever really meant to find…
I returned the car. It looked like shit after being driven through the dessert, through the dry lakebed then off to the Orange County. I think I’d put close to 700 miles on it. How many of those spent zooming over the LA freeways high as a kite, who knows, it’s LA, and, isn’t high-as-kite, divorced-guy zipping around in Mustang convertibles exactly what these freeways were built for? Driving around, believing I was suffering my midlife crisis, not knowing the crisis that was my life at the time was nowhere near halfway done.
I had a whole day after dropping off the car. A whole day, now on Venice Beach to ready myself for the red eye back to Toronto. My objective was to board the plane with the reddest eyes possible. I had a nice lunch, soaked up sun n’ wine on some patio and then wandered the boardwalk.
If you’ve been, you’d likely agree that Venice beach is a pretty nice and funky market-bizarre filled with loads of wonderfully left-coast whack jobs. Crystals, the ancient art of tie-dye, roller skaters and old rock posters. I found a guy giving shiatsu in the shade of one of the palms and promptly bought an hour. If you’ve ever been to Venice Beach after a full day and night of dropping MDMA (along the freeway)… if this shiatsu wasn’t the best shiatsu I’d ever gotten, I just don’t know. The guy was massaging beyond my muscle and right through to my soul. One of those sessions where you had to grab your breath after each squeeze and pull. After he was done his magic it was all I could do to sit all alone, under the palms for hopefully the rest of my entire life… he snuck up on me.
Mr. Massage dude came up to me as I was sitting under the palm tree, “Dude, it seemed like you really enjoyed that?” I did, really. “Wanna try something different?” Before I could get too worried, or excited about what he might be suggesting he told me how he’d been training as an acrobatic shiatsu-ist. His training wasn’t complete, and he was always having trouble finding willing vict… participants. He thought I’d make a great candidate considering how relaxed I’d felt while he was squeezing me into another plane of existence… “…are you up for it?” …of course, I was.
He lay a mat on the grass next to his massage table. I immediately went to lay on it. He stopped me, laid onto it himself, putting his legs in the air. “Put your buttocks on the balls of my feet”, what the…? “Sit your ass on the bottom of my feet.”
I leaned back, with my butt resting on his feet as he instructed. He told me I was going to have to trust him. That I needed to do exactly as I was told and above all else, totally relax. Somehow, he managed to hypnotize me I guess as I soon found myself laying on the bottoms of his feet, floating in space being held there by my ass on his feet and his hands as he shiatsu’d my shoulders. Thinking back, it must have looked ridiculous but holy fuck it felt great.
Next thing you know he completes some sort of circus toss and I’m directly upside down. I’ve lost any memory of how he was holding me in this position and, he’s still fucking massaging me. Eventually I’m full 180 and coming down the other way. He tells me to put my feet on the ground but to remain bent over, like I’m bowing to some Japanese emperor’s daughter or something. He tells me to, ever so slowly begin to stand up straight while all the time, he’s still massaging this and that. When I was finally fully upright, I felt a full two inches taller, like I’d just returned from space. A rockstar astronaut on the beach, alone with Mr. Shiatsu Super-Guru on Venice Beach.
Is there really anything quite like the first get away immediately after losing one’s first wife? Opposite of say the honeymoon itself it feels like an absolute ending. As much as the wedding feels so much like beginning of everything, the journey that feels like it’s the start of something that’s forever. Fucking youngsters off on the adventure, dreaming, hoping it will be a little bit like what they’d been sold. Something like their parents had going. Like the Beave’s parents (for you older folks), before TV parents all bacame widows and widowers. Sigh, our parents’ generation. You know, that generation just wouldn’t quit a bad marriage. No Matter what.
I mean, we knew what was coming. In the back of our minds, we saw what the sixties, the seventies and eighties really had done to concept of marriage. The easy outs, the “let’s not bother to fix this” it’s all about me ethos. Who really knows, it all may have been totally manufactured, and, by design.
In those first years after the first marriage, how can one know how much more life there’s left to live. As you lick the deepest wound you’ve ever been blown, you’d never know how vast the life after that first marriage would be. For me it was two more half-hearted attempts. Marriages without all the bells and whistles per se. Don’t get me wrong, both were, in their own moment at the times time greatest of loves I’d ever had known. The latter even gifted me the greatest love a fella could ever know when she gave me my son.
…on the beach, tired and tumbled. Staring alone watching the sun actually set where it’s meant to set, into the Pacific a way out west. Having a final glass of wine or two… well rubbed and relaxed, how could I possibly know what was coming. I was still licking the wounds of the then deepest of cuts.
I had just visited the First Female ex-Prime Minister of Canada. Business was looking good if not absolutely great. The wheels had come off my personal life, but there were no kids to abandon or houses to cut in half (or is it houses to abandon and kids to cut in half). As I watched that sun set and readied myself for a cab ride out to LAX. I’m pretty sure I thought that things were going to be OK, that it would all be downhill n smooth sailing from here… to, there…
I woke up again this morning with the sun in my eyes When Mike came over with a script surprise A mafioso story with a twist A “To Wong Foo, Julie Newmar” hitch Get your ass out of bed, he said: I’ll explain it on the way But we did nothing Absolutely nothing that day And I’ll say What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? I got the fever for the flavor The payback will be later Still I need a fix And the girls on the bus kept on laughing at us As we rode on the ten down to Venice again Flaring out the G-funk Sipping on juice and gin Just me and a friend Feeling kinda groovy Working on a movie (Yeah right!) But we did nothing Absolutely bupkis That day And I’ll say What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? With my mind on my money and my money on my, beer beer! I know that life is for the taking So I’d better wise up And take it quickly (Yeah one more time at trader vics) Some men there wanted to hurt us And other men Said we weren’t worth the fuss We could see them all bitching by the bar About the fine line Between the rich and the poor Then Mike turned to me and said What do you think we got done son? We’ve got a conclusion And I guess that’s something So I ask you What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? I got the fever for the nectar The payback will be later Still I need a fix (We need to fix you up Call me monday And maybe we’ll fix it all up) L.A. L.A. L.L.A. L.A.
What indeed was I doing drinking in LA, at… thirty something? What had I done to deserve this? Oh if I’d only known… but that’s for… absolutely bupkis that day…
(What if the lies you’ve been told were told by you?)
If I claim that I no longer subscribe to the common globe earth hypothesis, must I then believe the world is flat? I mean come on, really? Are there only two possibilities? I am more than comfortable believing that what we have been taught is fake phoney and false. Do I have my own theories? Sure, but none too definite at this time. Am I obligated to describe my theories before I deny my belief in those I’ve being told? No. I’m quite happy bouncing from one idea to another and to yet another one still. There’s a joy in speculating and imagining all sorts of possibilities. If I can solidify any one of these notions into a form solid enough to enjoy a good conversation around then, all the better. Why settle on knowing for certain when, for a fact we know there is so much more than we could ever possibly know and not know. Certainty is the end of opportunity.
Releasing oneself from the burden of beliefs frees you from the constant demands of always having to be right. What use is there in always being right? If at the very root, the source of what we know is now in question? Isn’t considering the possibility of an even greater truth being out there thrilling? I once heard it said that “belief is the enemy of knowing”; “I don’t know” seems a better place to be than say, “I’m right here”. I’m certain of one thing only, there’s like way more to all this, than that… man.
(If you recall, your opinion of me is really none of my business.)
There’s nothing I enjoy more than being labelled incorrectly. “You’re a fascist a Republican, you’re deplorable!” I can only imagine this as being as glorious as being misgendered. “You subscribe to daft conspiracies, you’ve obviously no interest in the facts and quite frankly, you’ve become unhinged.”
There is indeed a hinge that one can swing this idea of sanity upon, the belief that there is indeed a truth. Maybe I’ve fallen into the dia-dorable, post-modernist trap and deconstructed things I’ve needed far too many times to still believe in. This nonsense known as relativism. I see no reason to abandon everything in pursuit of nothing. I simply prefer to seek a truth I know I’ll never know. Believing in truth while knowing I’ll never truly know it was quite possibly the greatest step I have taken towards finding that truth.
(And then, what of love?)
So everything you know is not what it seems. Everything is left in question. Yet you maintain there’s a truth you will never know? How is that fair? …Oh, it’s fair alright
(to be continued… maybe)
I’ll admit to being a bit uneasy the first time I got a disabled call, my screen reading “THE PASSENGER IS BLIND”. My life long training in basis humanity did kick in, I mean, quite naturally. Pulling up to the apartment block door, I found Ron staring into that space that blind folks stare into already waiting, just at the top of the steps. I got out, walked around the car, announced that I was his cab and instinctively asked “How blind are ya, and how much help are you gonna need?” Ron told me that he was totally blind and said with a smile in his voice, would take any help I would give him. I asked him what the best way to help might be, he told me that letting him put his hand on my shoulder and steering him to the railing of the stairs and the cab door would be best.
I don’t think there could’ve been a better blind man to have as my first “differently abled” passenger than Ron. Asking him if he’d been blind all his life, Ron told me it was the result of a gunshot wound in his 20s. I mentioned how I’d had one partially blind friend and how I thought it was rather silly how she’d been given free movie pass to Cineplex by the government or some blind agency.
“How do you feel about deaf people?”
Ron was indifferent towards the partially blind, was uneasy with some of the perks he himself was privy to; had no real issues with deaf people but did have a beef with a few of his blind friends back in the apartment complex… “The bastards come down and spill things on my new carpeting and mess up my freshly painted walls… and don’t apologize!” … “Funny, I wouldn’t think that’d matter that much too you, Ron?” … We had a few good chuckles on the way to the beer store and back. The pantomime at the Beer Store was as good as an old Vaudevillian skit. I hadn’t shopped at an Ontario Beer store in 20 years. Ron had himself a good laugh as I towed him, arm on shoulder to the “bottle return” counter by mistake, hmmm the blinded by booze leading the blinded by gunshot into the beer store… or some such nonsense.
I’ve met some great folks and had some great conversation and continue to be wowed by just how well most people faced with disabilities do. How they step up and adapt to conditions I shudder to think I might one day be afflicted with. My trip with Ron was a relief in proving to myself that my own sensitivity training has and continues to, for the most part worked for me.
Well before “cabbie training” I came to employ, what I like to call it the very direct “so how’d you end up in the wheelchair?” approach. The “otherwise abled” folks I’ve met seem to appreciate cutting through the mamby-pamby bullshit and getting on with a good conversation. Of course, being genuinely interested in another’s affliction never hurts. As with most of my fares, the blind, deaf, and legless and all the various shades of crazy people I drive around town do so often put a smile on my face… and simply remind me that with those who’ve been handed a bum deal, “to be of good service” is pretty much the best place to start… Pretty much true for the folks pretending not to be disabled.
So, weeks before all this quarantine shit got started, I’d been feeling kind of short of breath as, my lungs never really did come back fully after quitting smoking. A few years back I was having breathing problems and found out I had walking pneumonia… I was going to check that out… three weeks ago. That plan got nixed with the current emergency.
Late last week, I’m noticing, and being told by patients, residents and nurses that the hospital really isn’t that busy and that contrary to what you might think, Emerge is a bit of a ghost town. I figure, this might be a good opportunity, I mean it really might be a good idea to know what’s going on with my lungs during a respiratory pandemic, right? Maybe popping in to find out I had or didn’t have walking pneumonia again, might be kinda prudent, i.e. not a selfish thing to do… right?
Yesterday afternoon, I pulled into the Emergency unit at our local Hospital and, indeed, I was, the only person there. I told them straight up, I have little reason to suspect infection and that I was there simply to rule out the walking pneumonia. I waited all of five minutes to be shuffled into the ward. I was asked to do a little deep breathing while the attendant, likely a resident, was listening and an x-ray later, no walking pneumonia, great… but wait! We’d like to test you anyway, seeing how you have one symptom. This was a surprise, a nice bonus even. I mean what a great time to find out, first in line… a nice casual test at the hospital rather than a few weeks down the road, standing in line half naked at the local hockey arena with 10,000 other half naked coughing zombies, crying babies and old Portuguese grandmothers speed reading their Rosary beads.
Now, you may find it odd, me of all people knocking the President but, sure it’s a little uncomfortable having a swab jammed into your nose and spun while almost kinda touching that thingy that connects the two halves of your brain… I mean it is a bit nasty but, it’s something I would hope a President could bare. Anyhow, I got swabbed, samples bagged, they took my phone number and did I what I was told for a change and went straight home… to wait for the call today.
I’d have to say I’ve had a pretty good life. Growing up in a small town; flunking out of Art School ‘cause, you know (fucking) crayons. Small towns, big cities and bigger cities than that. Running businesses by the seat of my pants and well, taking a few good blows here and there… I’ve got no complaints. The old engine has run pretty hot at times but, the Mexicans didn’t get me as a teenager with their damned ACAPULCO gold, my fellow countryman didn’t bring me down with Molson’s CANADIAN, thems ‘merican hillbillies didn’t git my with their TENNESSEE (so called) Whisky and… those dammed Chinese Commies didn’t get me with their WUHAN flu.
I tested negative, just like on all those other, cough tests…
Well it’s back to work for me, (I am essential after all)… I don’t got no virus, no walking pneumonia… I’m just an old man who’s way outta shape, with a little bit more of the good life ahead of me… just like vast majority of you guys!
God bless.
I refuse to discuss guns in the context of crime unless you allow me to address the crimes that governments have perpetrated against their own citizens over all these eons. Shall we list the number of people killed for the sake of an errant policy or a misplaced ideology? The most heinous crimes of the last century have been committed by governments, against their own citizens, in the name of the good and well after the guns have all been confiscated. The question is not if government will turn on you, it’s when. Government demanding you disarm is a pretty good indication that when, is soon.
I’ve completed the required safety and handling courses. I have the proper licenses. My guns are stored in a manner that far exceeds the current legislation. I transport them to the range on occasion essentially to maintain familiarity with operation and safety. I’ve taught my son to neither fear nor romanticize these weapons. My objective is to clearly separate the fantasy guns from the real ones, the purpose for which he is developing a deep appreciation. One day it’s my hope he’ll come to understand the true power these weapons we have responsibly locked away truly wield; the power that is liberty, personal sovereignty embodied within truly emancipated citizenship.
Question: Why do you need a motorcycle that goes 235 KPH?
Answer: You don’t owe me an explanation.
Proving herself fearless and saving me from another potential “threat of police call” moment immediately endeared me to this young lady. Her boyfriend showed up an hour or so later, ending any opportunity I had to make, one of my patented, usually wildly unsuccessful pick up manoeuvres on her. Sally, JP and I would become best buddies. As it turned out we lived on parallel blocks, a street or two apart. They started hanging at my bar, we started getting invites to hang with them, in their backyard.
These backyard hangouts were pretty outrageous booze infused affairs. Both Sally and JP shared my pleasure in pushing things as far as they’d go then going a bit further, a lot further. One night as we were approaching one of the many lines in the sand we’d likely end up crossing, for some drunken reason, I decided it was time to scale the garden wall that separated their back yard from some other lucky Brooklynite .
A Brooklyn backyard is centered in… A block of four, five or six story turn of the century low rise walk ups ringing a block. It’s an almost airtight, walled in courtyard. These courtyards are partitioned further for each property; creating a nest of walled gardens to be enjoyed by the ground floor occupant of each building. My fifth-floor apartment overlooked a very nice courtyard, lots of trees. Sally and JP lucked out and had use of theirs. It was pretty large and had an open chunk of dirt that hadn’t been paved. Paving these yards was common as building owners attempt to keep dirt down, as well as burrowing rodent and their associated feral cat populations seem to like digging if left open dirt… Sally and JP has a chunk of dirt; they had dirty rodents and feral cats all at their disposal right there in their own backyard. They seized this as an opportunity to plant tomatoes.
How lucky does one have to be to be an urban farmer in Brooklyn… ? …I was quite jealous; even if JP would often remind me how annoying the rats and cats where. We may actually have been talking about these cats when I drunkenly decided it was time to scale the wall. Of course, to get to this wall, I had to walk through their garden. Of course, as soon as I got a foot off the ground up the wall, the old trellis that seemed safe enough at the time to climb broke away and I tumbled backwards, right onto Sally and JP’s tomato plants. Of course, Sally and JP weren’t just a little angry and, twenty odd years later I still haven’t heard the end of my destroying their precious tomato plants. My key defence in pleading forgiveness was that, given it was spring, there weren’t barely any tomatoes yet, just little green nubs where tomatoes would be one day. This defence never did hold water and, of course is the underpinning-concept for this entire story.
Sally and I agreed pretty much on one thing, and one thing mostly, that getting shit-faced and doing drugs was indeed, a good time. We likely disagreed on everything else but had a fabulous time getting shit-faced, doing drugs and arguing over it all the same. JP and I would argue on occasion, but his advanced intellectual prowess, gained while studying to, and becoming a lawyer usually left me at a disadvantage what with his use of facts and logic n’ all. Sally and I could go at it though, full on moron, and we still do! Partisan politics, women’s issues, the whole black, white, thing abortion, you name it. Sally and I can take opposite sides of any argument and kick the shit out of each other over it. I’ll be damned if I won’t always love her for her ability to pull up into our little cul-du-sacs at the end of an argument, sigh and remind me that I’m a shithead and how much she loves me for that… Who doesn’t like having friends you can agree with? Having a friend who you agree with on next to nothing who will remain a friend is to be cherished, forever.
Abortion was one of those favoured arguments. This was the good old days when one could still argue things like gay marriage and abortion. There were a pile of nuances, blind alleys and back peddled attacks Sally and I could pitch n forth at one another over abortion. I won’t argue on her behalf, I’ll just leave her position as, no if, no ands, no buts, it’s a woman’s choice. My position was… well let’s just start with “choice”.
Of all course woman are afforded the same choices in life as any other human, in this case the other humans being men. I’d like to see men afforded the same. I argue that excluding the man in the abortion debate, outright, so matter of factly as many women do is repugnant. My own abortion experience has left a sad echo that continues to ring through the key moments in my life. I didn’t brood over the decision, but I am forced to revisit my role in my agreement to have this abortion. Assuming it weighs any less on my psyche because I wasn’t a physical participant, well it cheapens what’s actually at stake here, no? I’ve revisited my decision in this in quiet times, a decision that has snuck up on me more than once, when least expected. It crossed my mind as I enjoyed my son’s birth, and again on that sad day when I watched my father die. Framing abortion as solely a women’s issue is, inhuman.
A woman’s control over her own body is, sacrosanct. How could I not agree with this given my beliefs concerning forced medication, the right to try and the right to die. The difficulties undoubtedly lay in the snipping, clipping and cutting our way through the rights of two separate beings while conjoined. This seems to me, the whole of the problem. I mean, after you dismiss the grand obfuscation, the heinous distraction of attempting to measure when life begins, all that’s really left is the simplicity of balancing one life over another.
Interestingly enough, current trend towards extending abortion rights right up to entry into and even exit from the birth canal seems a beginning to allow for truer focus on the formality of the “when does life begin” question. These decisions to allow post birth abortion are clearing up this distraction quickly. If we are granting women the right to “terminate” our children right up to and including immediately after birth why quibble over any belief other than life beginning at inception? Likewise, as preemies continue to survive outside the womb earlier and earlier, doesn’t the notion that sustainability outside the mother holds less water in the argument? How close are we to some damned scientists growing a baby outside of its mother? It’s not like anyone truly believes that life begins by crawling through a wet tunnel and out of a dark hole. I firmly believe, instinctively even, that life begins at inception, that the life begins at X-moment argument is nothing more than a deflection, a proposition attempting to raise the woman’s status over the child’s during their conjoined predicament?
Here’s where I stake my claim to being as emotionally, spiritually and intellectually responsible for the creation of new life as any woman I’ve chosen to participate in this with. The creation of life, beyond simply fucking is the most human of all acts. Describing it wholly as medical procedure is abhorrent. Diminishing creation to its having some measurable beginning and a mechanical ending decided upon by the whims of a teenaged mother, well perhaps we have lost our way. Perhaps the biblical rulings on the joining of man and woman for this act does actually have merit, perhaps the Victorian prudishness we applied to the rules of bonding, had its uses. Obviously leaving the responsibility of fucking to stoned boys and drunk little girls is… (shhh, not the best idea)
It’s easy to see how anger so quickly enters the argument over abortion. It’s fundamental. The tearing apart of the two sexual components of our species at times seems on purpose. It’s the ultimate divide if one wants to conquer and destroy a culture. Separating men from women, having them believe that each hold separate concerns in the creation of new life, that their differences outweigh the differences needed to create a completed species is in many ways the definition of pure evil.
Does a couple have the right to terminate a pregnancy, kill the child and get on with their own lives? I doubt any real couple would. Would a woman, if left alone? Obviously if that’s where she has found herself, alone, this choice should be hers, and God can only hope she makes it wisely. But in this situation, let’s never forgive the pale shadow of a man, inhuman as he is for walking away from his ultimate responsibility.
Sadly, wisdom is not something a lot of very young women have, less so little boys. Enticing our children with the thrill of rubbing their genitalia together, although timeless, ancient even, seems all the more commodified, productized today. It’s been turned into another jolts per second act, like a dance step mere slivers step away from whackity whacking off to PornHub. I’m not pleading for the return to Victorian morality or good clean Christian living but, can’t we do better? As parents, can’t we somehow instil upon our kids the horror of having to kill a baby vs. the absolute joy of having one when you want it? Can we not return to teaching boys to become men and girls to fighting off boys who think abusing themselves and girls is somehow a path to this manhood?
I don’t recall if on any of these points Sally and I agreed or if any had really been made as stated. I mean I guess we agreed on the woman’s right, but she likely balked on my demanding we circumvent this convenient euphemism and acknowledge, killing is killing. I would almost be certain she’d want to put a different spin on the beginning of life. Given how new the notion is, I doubt we ever really argued over the horrors of killing you child as their head started to crown from within one’s vagina. Chances are we will enjoy this conversation again one day. She’ll call me as she does from time to time, we’ll get caught up on the lives of our kids and the ins and outs of whatever convulsions our current relationships have taken… Maybe she’ll bring it up or maybe me. Maybe I’ll start our next abortion argument simply be saying, “Sally, I love you and… I’ve always wanted to say… I am so sorry, remember that night I climbed you wall and… well… I am so sorry I murdered those fucking little green tomatoes of yours. You know the one’s that weren’t there quite yet. You know, the tomatoes that could have been… tomatoes one day” that oughta get us going.
Say for example, that rat bastard Bezos; how much business does he drive at each of his suppliers, at each of the sub retailers he supports? What is the measure of all the delivery agencies Amazon does business through. What’s the value of all the construction work they’ve purchased for the building of their facilities and mechanical system… each person employed, how much does each of them spend and on what? Like rings on a tree, layers of the onion, what are the ripple effects of each of these billionaires?
How much greater is the value of say a Bezos, his companies and all their moving parts in relation to say a Buffet who, more or less, makes his money by making money. Of course, what is the economic value of the companies he invests in, and for whom this investment is life giving? Are logistics companies more valuable than finance companies? What about real estate developers and all the hardware and bodies they set in motion and the economies each building spins?
Perhaps this already an area of study. Have we harnessed the algorithms and created the formulas to make these measurements and I’ve simply somehow missed them? It would seem to me, given how much we hate our billionaires, someone somewhere would be generating this information to defend them, others would be doing so to further attack them. Money, markets and the money makers. Is the simple value of man’s assets the measure of his value? Or is the total impact each of these billionaires have on us, each of their suppliers, employees, and customers not the true measure of their value to us?
Oh and as for this list of the “richest men on earth”; if believe that this list include no Rothschilds (et al). Then you’re probably not paying attention. The truly richest families on earth, don’t want you to know who they are.
First off, prepare yourselves for 2025. This will be your first official five-year homecoming. You should descend on this little town like a jet fighter, rockets red blaring, guns firing… you should be ready to burn this mother fucking place to the ground (relax, townies, I’m referring to campus and the non-civilian parts of the student-ghetto). I remind them that in five years they’ll be more than well off enough to fund a river of beers and a mountain of red Solo Cups… “why’s that?”
Well kiddo (I rarely call ‘em kiddo, but) well junior, you’re graduating into total uncertainty… And uncertain times can be the absolute best of times to find your “way in”. Look at it this way, a few months back you thought you had locked up that certain internship, your predetermined spot in some cubicle somewhere, somewhere at the start of the same old path. There’s a very good chance, that path ain’t going to be there any longer and that, well that’s total fucking liberation. If you want it to be. (You’ve got a built-in excuse to tell the folks who just paid for this education that, you’re taking a different route).
Here’s what you do, bucko, start looking for signals, start sniffing around those edges you didn’t consider before because before, you were just sniffing what you thought would be your way along that path. Signals? How are people responding to this endlessly ridiculous “pandemic” nonsense? Think beyond the toilet paper rolls and try and see what people are truly afraid of, what they’re missing and what they are muttering most about, under their breath. What businesses will survive, which will die and need to be rebuilt, and even more of interest, try and figure out just what lies are being exposed, and what never really mattered to begin with.
Here’s an exercise for you. The other day, the President said something that got the mainstream press in a lather and lead the knuckle dragging mouth breathers to go nutty on the socials with their half-witted humour. Now, you can join in have a little fun trying to prove you’re just as smart as the knuckle draggers, or, you can take a glorious whiff and seize an opportunity to sniff… Remember, regardless of what you think, the President of the United States of America sits atop a mountain of information, has access to an intelligence network that us mortals cannot begin to comprehend and, well you might not like or respect the way he words things but… this President, unlike the politicians, actually knows something and wants to say it.
It’s funny, his “unique” speaking style reminds me of those moments when you’re trying to get too much out at once, non-starting thoughts and overlapping references. You can see these one of two ways, sheer stupidity or, genuine honesty. Now, if you choose the latter here’s the advantage.
Why do you look down upon someone or something? Because you think you’re better, or somehow above them, right? How do you learn anything if you already feel superior? You don’t. Why mock someone or something you don’t totally understand? Did you build a small real estate empire in Manhattan when Manhattan was flat on its back? Where you once primed to buy the Holiday Inn Franchise out from under the Marriott empire, then make millions in the act of finally declining the deal? Did you build a world class brand or ever, you know decide to run a political campaign to become the most powerful man on earth, and like, win? Someone’s always done something you haven’t, so there’s something to be learned, from anyone… and everyone.
I have this conversation, or variations there in at least once a day, a dozen times a week. The end of the school year, although the beginning of my dead zone is one of the nicest of moments in this town, doing this gig. Love ‘em or hate ‘em most of these little jerks are pretty good kids. Queen’s University, the college and RMC do filter and deliver us the more enthusiastic kids and, there is nothing quite as fun as talking to someone about something they can’t wait to start doing… working!
It will be an interesting time for these kids. Who knows what shape it’ll take, but everything is about to change. Alongside my attempt to fire them up, I’ve assigned them the task of making some good strong opening moves in this, once again, new world in order to make a little room for my boy, who’ll be along soon…
Sniff, look, listen and learn. For God’s sakes, you’re 20, don’t be the dead brick know-it-all, do NOT get in your own way by believing you are right. Definitely don’t follow the knuckle dragging morons into the feedback loop of anger, hatred and fear… it’s all right there for these kids, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. They are not the cry-baby safe space dwelling morons you’ve been reading about. They are way smart, and while we hide under our beds, they’re going to seize this petrified world… One damned UBER ride to the rail station at a time.
I’ll admit, as many NON-COVIDIANS will, that after prolonged exposure, I am likely more COVID now than I am human. This hasn’t manifested itself outwardly in any visible or physical sense. We’ve no marking, no sores, our posture and demeanour would likely not appear much different than your own. This being said, we may appear to have a little more pep in our step as, unlike your now more sedentary lifestyle, us OUTSIDERS have adopted an almost Shwa-da-vee attitude to it all, a sort of come what may demeanour as we zip freely around the these now empty streets.
Some of you might say that this cavalarity may be our downfall. Obviously this happy-go-luckiality may indeed lead to the end of this nascent OUTSIDER “rule” of the outsides, the end to our perhaps almost complete dominance of the out of doors. You should be aware though that many of the essentials among us are already calculating the uptick in their lives, and now that there’s less a clutter of human wants, and needs are seeing new paths to control and power. You can already see some of the more ambitious out here securing control of the food supply, transportation routes, medical facilities and the much-discussed distribution channels, through which ALL of your insider needs now flow.
I wouldn’t worry too too much. Not all of us essentially Outside NON-COVIDIANS hold you in that much disdain. Oh sure, our annoyance in your sending your minions out to close our parks and trails and fencing off playgrounds and skateparks has angered many, but the talk of setting you alight and burning you in your homes, has pretty much subsided.
Many of us have begun planning what indeed we may want to use you for as you begin to emerge from deep within the safety of your homes. We know that you’ll eventually have to come out for more than just food, and to sneer and make our lives miserable. Our plans have ranged from organizing work parties of insiders to repair our roads, possibly expand our infrastructure. We know that there’s a few of you who have taken your inside time to expand your knowledge, knowledge us NON-COVIDIANS may use to explore new technologies that will make our outside world, even better… for us.
So, insiders, friends, fear not. This world is spinning round quite nicely without you. When the time comes to slowly inch your doors open, and peer ever so meekly into what you fear may be the post-apocalyptic wasteland you read of in your books and watched on your moving picture screens… We’ll be out here, keeping it all running, working for that day when you, the insider will be working… for us… us, your Brave New NON-COVIDIAN, OUTSIDER overlords.
See you soon.
For the umpteenth time already. Why (the fuck) would I argue with someone I do not love? Why would I bother to try (in vain) to change your mind, if I didn’t respect how you think? Why would I bother if I didn’t want to know your opinion, examine how you came up with them and tested how firmly you held these ideas of yours.
Over the I’ve learned very little from those I’ve agreed with whole heartedly. Even during arguments where my opinions do not change, they have been either hardened, tested or threatened. The latter leading me to re-examine these ideas. I enjoy pleasant conversation with like-minded souls as much as I do a little verbal sparring. I’d much rather loose and argument than hold on to an idea I’ve outgrown or that you can convince me of being fallacious.
So…
Don’t be an idiot, fight dammit! AND remember, belief is the enemy of knowing.
You are not racists. I am not a racist, nor are “they”. The system is not racist. Am I a bigot, a cad a sexist? We are being divided into smaller and smaller groups and then pitted against one another. It’s pathetic, it’s deplorable and... it’s painfully obvious. Once you see it.
Rather than subconsciously participate, go along. Rather than being afraid my sometimes-feisty nature has demanded I respond in the contrary. Rather than fight back face to face; rather than taking to full brunt head on… I’m trying to tackle all this obliquely. Swimming upstream more often only exhausts one’s efforts. Kick sideways, throw ‘em off. A simple semi-agreeable nod or a gesture of reciprocation can easily put them on their heels just long enough to make one’s temporary retreat.
It's never a surrender but rather a regrouping. The battle is eternal. They’ll never stop fighting. When their objective is to win at all cost; make yours, simply… to survive long enough to fight another battle. It’s never over.
With this one act, they are dooming future black and indigenous Doctors to a suspicion that they may not be “top doctors”. If my son was dying of Leukaemia, wouldn’t I feel more secure bringing him to see a white or Asian doctor? A doctor who I could be certain had met the original med school standards and was accepted based on merit? Even more so, was it now even more difficult for the white or Asian doctors to obtain one of the now fewer spots in med school left over for non-quota-mandated students? Furthermore, can I now be even more certain the white or Asian doctor graduated with top grades and not because he met a mandated quota reuirement by your university simply so that institution could appear virtuous.
You are doing the community and med students, particularly Black and Indigenous med students a horrible disservice here. You know this, everything I’ve said here is well documented but you’re doing it anyway because you are frightened by the mob. Promotion on the grounds of bias, in any way shape or form weakens the systems and denies us all the best, most competent and deserving.
…one of the half dozen or so drivers’ licence-less lady Saudi medical-residents coming off a 26-hour rotation ...a couple off to buy a hairless guinea pig. A law student heading down to one of the dozen or so cannibis retailer to buy pot... Then… another fourth year, off to Calgary to begin the new life on the oil patch and a couple, fleeing their Palm Spring winter home to continue their “quarantine” in their summer place out on Howe Island.
Basically, my “quarantine” … ? …business as fucking usual... it’s nice to be needed
Is it born of an over abundance of arrogance? Maybe it’s a malady of the pig-headed. It’s definitely a prevalent condition found in those who’ve had enough education, maybe a bit too much and have somehow decided they’re smarter because they know more about… you name it.
Is it, do we call it a condition that someone might slip in and out of; grow out of? Have you ever witnessed a sanctimonious pig transform into, say a more empathetic, caring perhaps even open-minded soul? I’ve never remained close to anyone carrying around even an ounce of sanctimony long enough to see any such transformation. Maybe it’s the unceremonious nature of our splitting ways but, I rarely even come across arrogant pricks years after our most recent separation. It’s my honest belief, they just remain the same heartless, all-knowing butt faced goons for the balance of their miserable little lives. I’m sure they do manage to find either kindred souls or at least some loser willing to remain close to them. My two biggest concerns with sanctimony are, hoping to come across as few of them as possible and overcoming the nagging suspicion that I may indeed be one myself.
You are going to die. I am going to die. Our children will die eventually. As will their children. Making us all miserable in order to shave a few years off the inevitable will (and did) just make matters worse. There will (and was) be anger. There will (and was) resentment and mistrust. The “process” has proven far more difficult to “restart” than it would have been to run it with, even a skeleton crew (it would never have gotten to that).
Every last single thing done during the “pandemic” was wrong, ill advised and poorly implemented. I believe this to be the unimpeachable truth. We were lied to. More lives were destroyed by these “relief/mitigation” efforts than will ever be lost by the virus itself. Of course, the numbers of those who died from the disease rather than the treatments was far greater and will be debated for years. The only question that remains for me… Just how intentional was all this? Pick from any one of a half dozen motives; the easier answer for me. This was all done by design.
I think most of my American pals who know me, know exactly how much I love, adore, respect, admire and, did I already say, say love the United States of America. Many of you may be scratching your head of late, wondering why I've been shitting on the head of your sitting President... It’s really quite simple really but, maybe why not, let’s try an old New York Yankees analogy might work best here...
It's like, let’s look at A-Rod; good numbers at bat, OK fielding, but... he's a prima donna, a pretty boy, a whining C H E A T E R. He's cheated on the field, he's cheated off the field, on his wife (the love of his life?)... I was never happy that he was added to our team; AND at such a cost... OH and please, he’s was no Jeter, closer to Giambi, you remember him, that fat, sloppy pill poppin' broken down old slug?
Wholy so, and speaking generally, I’d never judge a team by it's topmost paid player. Likewise, I'd rather nobody Judge my country, Canada by its Prime Minister. That said, and to the original post, I’ll not judge your country, the greatest of nations, the nation of so many of my friends (and now my son), on its choice, good or bad in who is to serves the puppet masters as it’s President.
All I would ever ask of my American friends when it comes to their vote would be to remain, or simply BE INDEPENDENT! - I beg you! The declaration you celebrate on the fourth IS in my humblest opinion simply the most recent and most important step forward for mankind; DON'T step backwards... remain or, simply BE INDEPENDENT, don't let the Madison Avenue scum-bags and paid consultant hacks spin the yarns and makes you trust THUGS simply based on blue and red. Don't get lost in your choice, don't hold yourself to it... you're obliged to "evolve"... Think about it. AND, change your mind from. Time to time. Change stripes even.
You know I love each and every one of you so-called Republican's, declared Democrats, free-wheelin' Libertarian Tea-totin' America First lugs and oh so progressive... Collectivist-Hippies. I love each and every one of you who has stepped past the clutter of casual meme of the day and expressed some form of personal opinion on this and or that; bitched screamed, yelled... heck even whined a bit... Even our arguments prove functionality. Your warranty is intact IF, you THINK INDEPENDENTLY!
BE INDEPENDENT, don't settle, find time in your busy day to sit back, take a good long questioning American look at what was just said and be willing to say, BULLSHIT, it's only ever half right, left of center. STAY FREE of mind, and don't let those who want you to be lazy, treat you to your own laziness... You CAN have only one potato chip, it's YOUR call, not theirs!
I pledge you ONE thing; I will NEVER let my son see his birthright as a some sort of free pass. Wherever we bring him up, he will be taught that he has NO right to live in his homeland unless he's willing to contribute... at least half as much as his mother has contributed in pursuit of her own citizenship. He will be told not only to LOVE America, but know WHY he loves America, as both his mother and father do (for exceptionally different yet absolutely similar reasons I might add) ... And we'll leave the why he Love's America that he comes up with, on his own to his own INDEPENDENT notions...
I must say, even while I was in the throes of my Bush-Stained years, I never felt as though anyone else's opinion was an attack on mine... It was quite obvious to me anyway that, I was open to the idea of coming to a different conclusion and able to believe I might have been wrong about a whole bunch of things. I’m more than willing to accept that perhaps I just haven't given myself the time to research a topic as much as I should have or would have liked.
It's odd how, even just knowing how wrong we've been about so so many things in say, the last thousand, five hundred... even just within the last one hundred years or less. Isn’t it strange that so many of us seem to think the things we've come to believe over the most recent twenty five, fifty or seventy five years, we’re so so absolutely right about?
Another day, another half-baked fuzzy logic argument that we’ll hold onto as scripture, as the absolute truth. At least until...
In many ways I feel a bit sad for my homosexual pals. At the risk of excluding anyone, many of their most potent symbols, most notably their Pride Flag has become a joke.
This “Critical Theory” based postmodern attack on their most basic concepts and the, can we call it a Derrida’idian dissolving of their language, terminolgy and meaning has stripped almost everything tangible, meaningful and precious from the arguments around their concern. Harkening back to my old “marketing days” I might warn, attempting to segmenting one’s “message” to as many and most most granular of audiences will ultimately leave you with nothing but muddied waters.
In the end, “not my circus, not my monkeys”. I continue to believe, in the simplest of ways, that human couples are meant to pair off as a man and woman and, if a man wants to pair off with another, or a woman want to pair off with a woman this is none of my business. Peace be upon you.
I will never believe there are more than two sexes or two genders, nor will I ever believe one can change either of these by ingesting pharmaceuticals or cutting off and/or mangling body parts. This personal belief in no way describes my “feelings” towards any poor soul who attempts these changes. Truly, unless you’ve harmed “me or mine”, I’ve no issue with you at all.
I am simply feeling a bit sad for my homosexual pals, both men and women homosexual pals. There’s a lot to be said for… “keeping it simple stupid”.
How many of these numbers were collected and reported truly? How many dead bodies did you see? How many friends and family members perished? How many times did you embellish your experience to make your life sound more interesting, more dramatic? Were you ever really in any danger or did making yourself believe you were in danger make your feel, I don’t know, more a part of?
Not a single person I know, nor anyone known by a person I know died or was even suspected to have died from this infection. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe people did die. If I’m not mistaken the total global worldwide death count stands somewhere in the neighborhood of six to seven million. Would you rather that number be interpreted as horribly high or, extremely low; irrelevantly low even. It can be interpreted either way. It can be expressed as either depending on what you want your reader to “feel”… I c an start the next paragraph with either a low “anchor number” or a high one. So. I’ll ask, in the end, would you rather this most recent “pandemic” to be a tragedy, a farce or a scam? It can be all three without changing the numbers one iota. Imagine what it can be IF one does fudge the numbers.
It seemed like forever the Rolf’s five kids. The Navan’s two kids, Collers’ three kids the Johnson’s two kids, the Weaver’s three kids, the Coe’s gang of criminals and us two Gower kids that lived up n’ down old Marmora street just like Dick n Jane and the gang lived up and down Maple Street. Our parents, John, Mary, Becky, Bill, Doris, Dieter, Mavis and Doctor Bill, they weren’t perfect but damn they made it all seem perfectly idealic ! Kids all over the street all day, into the evening until one by one, called home for dinner by mom, yelling from the porch… text book, old school.
The Rolfs place was special even before the pool what with the playhouse the sandbox and the best toys on the entire block! ...and those exotic German lunches served up on the big wooden table to any kid in earshot! Little pickles; toothpaste like tubes of multiflavoured mustards. Bread that ranged from hard to harder and of course… to this day I thank Doris Rolf for instilling in me, an absolute love for liverwurst!
Dieter Rolf... the least scary dad on the block next to Doctor Bill hosted legendary BBQs. He made these stuffed Hamburgers cooked with all the condiments already inside of ‘em... When the Rolf’s got the neighborhood’s first inground backyard pool… well, that was certainly something and pretty much locked in their backyard as the best backyard to be invited over to. The backyard pool and BBQs were Deiter’s Domain... honestly the most welcoming spot on Marmora for... years and years. Its hard to separate Dieter from this backyard. I recall the Rolf;s taking one or two trips to Pennsylvania but, outside that…
Deiter was a good man in the company of good men in a good neighborhood in a good time. It’s extremely sad to see all them good dads all gone. It was an exceptional honour to have known them all!
ADD MORE
I’m a huge fan of the “photoshopped” image. Its message usually so blatant and easy to read. Like an editorial cartoonist, the photo shopper can pack a pretty tight punch into the meaning of their images.
Those photo shoppers who try to trick us by hiding there “edits” can be counted amongst history’s greatest fools as truth always wins and fakery simply will ultimately defrock the fraudster. In other words, if you try to fool us, you will get caught, and you’re trying to fool us will expose you and be the downfall of your agenda. Lying images last no longer than actual lies.
My personal defence against the trickster? Just assume every picture is faked in one way or another. Almost all picture used to describe a political narrative are staged; the background and props carefully selected to tell the story wanted to be told. Hours have been spent selecting the right picture, even more hours deciding on how to crop the selected image. I’ve known field photographers who’ve assured me that image of theirs that were printed in that morning’s paper, was nowhere near a portrayal of the story that unfolded in front of their lens the night before. The truth they captured, simply abandoned cropped and exchanged for what had happened in the framing selected, that which used to be off to the side... the best defence remains...
The only way to combat dis or misinformation is with more information.
Imagine we weren’t allowed to search through thousands of images of Hitler to find the trickster’s head fake. Imagine all of history’s images, locked away saved for those that spoke only, one truth; gave one side. Imagine if we had found, stumbled upon that one picture then, the one picture that with a basic level of discernment... We can only gain knowledge and an ability to decern by having access to as much information as possible, both real and fake. Having an idea of what’s likely fake is as equally important to having a belief in what might be true. Obviously, and of course, the last thing we want, the last thing our civilization could survive is for there to be a central power, an editor, someone in control of our “knowing” or “believing”... We can no more leave this editing to someone else than to leave the creation of our own belief solely in the hands on, another. Fake away… Given enough information, we will always find you out.
I'm pretty sure that Tommy Douglas, the last of our so-called Founding Fathers here in Canada; well ok, at least the Founding Father of our over-bloated Universal Healthcare System/Safety-Net; I’m sure he probably was thinking, hey maybe farmer Bob shouldn't lose the farm when he falls from the harvester rather than he was pondering the notion of a multi-million dollar machine that goes "ping" and keeps fat old City-Bob, that Super-Sized Soda slurpin' 700lb chain smoker Bob alive through five heart stint surgeries and a gastral bi-pass…
I expect the "founding fathers" of Social Security or the CPP didn't envision an age of retirement set to Freedom 55 and grandpa driving his JetSki at the 'you're only old as you think you are' for a retirement of almost 40 more years when hw finally passed at the ripe-ol-age of 92; OR grandma wandering the senior health care centre not knowing her name or mine as she celebrated her 115th birthday with the gang of registered nursing assistants make sure she doesn’t tumble over and break a hip on her way to the polls where that same assistant held her hand as she put that x beside the exact politician promised that same nursing assistant that their wages would be increased if elected..
I betcha the crafters of capitalism didn't bank on one single corporation owned by one single pirate owning both the genetic sequence of 75% of the worlds cash crop and the entire staff at the White House at exactly the same time. I bet the writyers o the Federalist Papers didn’t envision the good folks who got our kids into the free 'n open over-crowded classroom thinking that the teachers union would back there members demand that Ritalin only to become the back-bone of the head-in-the-cirrocumuli curriculum as an alternative disciplinary measured methodology when faced with a room full of six year old boys being… rambunctious. Wait… what?
Yup, those founding fathers were pretty near sighted; I doubt they'd once for a moment expected that this constitution thingy of theirs would end up being interpreted by their whining, foot stomping, not-so-great, great, great, great, great, great great grand-spoiled-babies shouting "me me me, and, I want exactly everything I want and I want it right now", after learning all they know about the pols in this year’s elections from some stupid comedian like Jon-Stewart, Colbert or that other imbecil… their entire political opinion being formed in a 5 second remote controlled accidents as they flipped the channel from Snookie upon the "Jersey Shore" to those 8 year old re-runs of the "West Wing" they show at 2am on Channel 12,876's Time-warp-TV… after the evenings episode of "Prayer-TV"
Nope, I betcha that those founding father could only have assumed they were writing that shit down to be used by adults… Sigh… dumbass Foundin' Fathers… nuttin' but a bunch of Dead Precedents.
As for my opinion on this other realm, that’s a conversation I would absolutely adore sharing with you. So, go ahead and off yourself you selfish fucking loser*. This is none of my business.
It would appears that these days, an entire industry has come to rely on this goodwill and kind nature of us patrons; not for exceptional, or even good service but just for the basic service itself; the bare proper performance of one’s duty. It’s as if the proprietor can now expect their patrons to commit to a substantial portion of the actual wage itself. The part of a severs compensation for simply providing the service in a competent fashion. How can this possibly work?
When a proprietor sets the price of say, Penne Arabiata on their menu at $25.99, I’m left to assume their evaluation in this price includes the cost of ingredients, the cost of preparation, chef’s wages, kitchen cost a portion of general overhead, which, I assume includes the wages paid to the serving staff. If not... Then please set the price at a point where these things AND your completer service is covered. You may also want to work in a little profit as, we all know the greatest crime against the working man, your wait staff, cook etc., is a company that does not turn a profit.
Are waiters free agents? If their wage will not be covered primarily by their basic services, why can't they jusy offer me something from the menu next door? "I mean really sir, the steak here is good, but if you allow me an extra 10 minutes, I'll get you one at both a better price AND..." Wouldn’t this be better service and more deserving of a better tip from me?
Don't get the picture?
I am more than happy to tip the person who takes my order, walks into the kitchen at the right time and places it in front of me when its best ready to be eaten. But I pay for the core service on my bill... I pay extra only if this is carried out with some pleasant chit chat, maybe a suggestion or two, you know human interaction that heightens the already too expensive experience of my eating out.
Oh and... no, I do not put my change in the tip jar at the coffee shop after someone pours plain coffee into a paper cup and points me in the direction of the milk jug. If the owner of said shop isn't covering his end and paying you a full wage; it is not my place to augment his wages, it's his business. See an accountant.
He'd changed his route a few months earlier so he could escort his then current girlfriend to her office. It was less direct, but he really quite enjoyed the extra few blocks, crossing the bridge, a nice little extra walking to start the day. Even on those way too many days she didn’t join him, when she'd sleep in, or called in sick, he’d more often than not, grab the 7. It was actually very surprisingly how often he did do this alone, how often she did call in sick considering how long she would eventually keep that job. On this morning, she was along with him. On top of it being an extra bit of walking to enjoy, he also enjoyed the ride the 7 an old Red Bird provided. How it bumped and jolted and violently swayed along the tracks and into at his station; how it seemed to bore n' grind itself right into Time SQ/42 Street, which at that time was the terminus of the 7 Line, one of his favorite lines in the city, for many reasons, some we might get to some other day.
The slope of the track entering Time SQ/42 Street coupled with the ricketiness of the old Red Bird’s rolling stock; "who doesn't love those old... redbirds" he'd often say to his pals; these countless-time-retrofitted over their service limits, tin-can-like train cars that seemed to twist apart at the seams around each corner, over each bump n' ripple on this older line inside the world's second oldest subway system. Another of the many more things he loved about NYC. A transit system, a transit commission that seemed to enjoy matching its oldest equipment with the lines and tunnels with the most decayed infrastructure. Who doesn't love a city in seriously need of repair. Who doesn’t love wandering around it’s most run-down parts.... but again, that's for, that some other day...
The 7 train would lurch downward just as it approached Time SQ/42 Street; just as it began its deceleration from top speed, which on this old worn out rolling stock felt like 700 mph. Gravity would jolt the riders forward then from side to side as the often-under-repair uneven ripples in the track made for a rough choppy-like sea, little bumpy breakers. The carriages would shake violently, just to that point when one might imagine there being no way they’ll even survive this intense a vibration. In his often one-fifth to halfway hung-over state, or if he were suffering the, you know lack of sleep associated with doing the stuff he shouldn’t have been doing on a “school night”; this rugged decelerating pitch n’ roll pounding and swaying vibration was a pure tactile pleasure. A bit of a thrill ride; the morning's awakening reminder that he was here, in the city, for certain, quite alive and living in the liveliest of places he'd always loved and was now able, finally, to call home... He’d finally made it to the place he’d so long ago pointed at and said, this is my home!.
Upon the slowing. not sudden but bouncing stop, the secondary less sudden rebounding jolt backwards. There it would be, another dramatic-fantasy, the miraculously surprisingly safe arrival at Time SQ/42 Street. Up he’d get from his seat (if had gotten one) and into the plunge, the tussling mix of all the other gorgeous morning morons who felt it necessary to race, be the first, up the stairs. He exited the station at his own happy just to be here pace. Never the first to emerge, but maybe the happiest to arrive and skip into what was on that day, the crystal-clearest, most cloudless bluest of blue skied and sunshiny day anyone would ever remember the streets of midtown Manhattan being bathed in. To be clear on this last point. It was probably one of the most beautiful summer’s done, but it’s not quite fall day there ever had been and maybe ever will be in… New York City.
He couldn't recall what meaningless chit-chatter he was having with his then current girlfriend on their walk into their offices that morning. Maybe there was some bickering, perhaps as was the case, more often than not, they simply walked along together in the dreadful silence she'd invade his happiness with. She was headed towards the easiest job in the city that she hated with all her might. He was walking towards a job that was simply just keeping him in, attached to this city he was in love with. Her shuffling alongside him didn’t really mean much, in many ways, like his current job, she was just another bit of glue, a piece of tape that helped him hold his tenuous grip to this place. He was in a trough, at a low point, holding tight to the inkling of a notion, that things would always get better if he just kept going with the few things that were going… kinda right. Good fortune, and maybe a bit of Forbes like business fame was as always, just around the corner; and in Manhattan what's around each and every corner is quite certainly a better bet than anywhere else one could have been.
We’ll just assume that on this day, like most days when he grabbed the 7, they shuffled along in complete silence. They’d be walking down 7th Avenue from 42nd Street to the doorway to her office's entrance at 36th Street, just up one block from the backdoor of Macy's. Dropping her off was a happier part of the walk on the days he'd escort his then current girlfriend. After a vacant kiss and the more or less joyless "see ya later" at 36th Street, he'd be afforded another more peaceful 11 block walk to his office on his own. A chance to light up another smoke without being nagged. He'd soak in the city he loved. He’d be able to let thoughts of what he might do next with his life run wild. He was always just two steps, a good decision or two and a couple of dreams of greatness ahead of when he'd find himself where he wanted to be. Today, on this day, nothing new nor memorable came to mind, or happened along the way... until he heard that sound he'll never truly remember hearing but would later always know for absolute certain, he did fucking hear... it. The sound of a shrieking jet engine, one way too low… a jet airliner, a distinctive shriek, a sound he knew quite well.
He had grown up in the little town called Trenton, not Jersey, but Ontario. Trenton Ontario, a really little town in Canada’s biggest province in that homeland the he had, for quite some, all the time he’d spent before he'd get to New York City, considered to be the most wretchedly boring place to have been from. Trenton was home to a military base. It was actually Canada's largest, busiest and most important Air Force base. For him, a clear sky full of various aircraft was just normal. When he visited his cousins in Brockville, Ontario, just down the St. Lawrence he'd stare for ages at the Lakers, the Ships running shit up and down the Great Lakes. His Brockville cousins simply ignored the boats as they chugged upriver and down the St. Lawrence on their way to and from Thunder Bay. But when these cousins visited him in Trenton, he'd chuckle at how they couldn't stop and look up each time a Hercules or a Buffalo rumbled through the skies, or when the deafening shrieking pitch of a 707, those old airliners, made it almost impossible to finish one's conversation... He had not only learned how to ignore the air-traffic above him, but he could also easily distinguish one plane from the other simply by the sound it made. It had become an almost instinctually subconscious skill that would prove helpful in putting his and more importantly his then current girlfriend's mind at ease... later that morning. At this moment, when he did or didn’t really remember hearing the shriek, he knew or didn’t know, exactly… it was an airliner.
Upon arrival at the makeshift Manhattan offices of his New Jersey based employer, another collection of kids who had decided they'd "rule the world" by opening yet another makeshift digital, internet marketing and advertising agency meant to compete with stolid, gray n' old agencies who hadn't a clue what they were doing in digital just up and over on Madison Avenue... Funny enough, even fifteen years later, nobody, except him of course, knew what they were doing in digital marketing and advertising... but that's beside the point... He unlocked the door to the makeshift Manhattan office and entered to a ringing, a ringing phone, that seemed to be ringing far too early. Looking back, if asked, he'd likely say that the phone seemed to be ringing off the hook.
"Do you hear any sirens?"
One of his bosses, the one he had rarely seen screamed at him in a hurriedly, oddly what sounded eve a bit panicked scream… He hadn't heard any siren, well ok, he hadn’t heard any more more sirens than he’d normally have heard in an 17 block walk smokin’ a smoke in the city on any given day. His walk from the 42nd Street Subway Exit to his office at 25th and 7th. But… then… just as the question was being asked, he'd suddenly come to realize; just right then… as he was being asked, that yes, the city did seem to come alive with the wailing sounds of way more sirens than usual, all of a sudden, it seemed to be sirens was all he could hear.
"A plane hit the towers..."
"A plane hit the towers..." ? …Well if that thought certainly didn't, couldn’t register at all with him. What towers? What, when where... what plane? What plane... huh?
The conversation was becoming more frantic and fractured as all the early risers who worked at the Jersey office started barking the new news as it happened. They had all gathered around a TV in the Jersey office likely as soon as they'd got similar calls from their friends or loved ones. His boss had somehow managed to tell him a theory that the plane was maybe a FedEx cargo plane, definitely not a single or double propped or private plane. A large enough airliner to do considerable damage had shrieked at full speed right into the North Tower of the world trade center, and that's all anyone knew... and they had a TV... in Jersey... so they knew as much as anyone else and way more than he knew as he stood there, kinda stunned, standing alone, in a still darkened makeshift Manhattan office space, just off 7th Avenue, in an old garment trade building at the top end of the garment district, just below midtown, in that in between no-man's land near The Garden. The part of town someone who didn't know better might have called, the lower edge of Hell's Kitchen, but was actually way way closer to say, Chelsea... just then…
"Another plane!!! Another plane just hit the other tower... the south tower, another plane..."
He overheard one of the early risers in the New Jersey office, not on the call, scream even more loudly in the background behind the conversation he was having with his boss... WHAT THE FUCK? Who knows and who cares who said this, him or his boss, or neither of them... ? … the conversation was abruptly finished except for his, almost too calmly saying something to the effect... "I better get out there and see what's what... I'll call you back as soon as I know something"; a weird little offer to be a helpful but quite honestly lousy salesman they'd hired to work out of the makeshift Manhattan office.
Hanging up, he bolted for the door, subconsciously, almost instinctively, he took the stairs, raced through the lobby, out and across 7th, over to 6th where he knew he'd have a clear view of the Towers. A beautiful view on this mo0st beautiful of days of the biggest things you'd ever see looming over any city, over this city, the city that had become so fixed in the dreams he had dreamed up for himself since the first time he'd visited there on a Grade 12 Urban Geography field trip back in 1979...
Once on 6th Avenue, he stopped dead; not quite as startled as he should have been he looked up into a now planeless and utterly clearest of clear blue sky to see it; the big burning hole in the north side of the North Tower. It was flaming at the edges, a burning hole like one that would form in a sheet of paper if you'd held a lit cigarette to the center of it. He looked up at the Towers, for what he couldn't have known at the time would be the last time he'd have the chance to look up at them and thought, quite frantically, sadly even, most definitely confused by what he was looking up at, thinking to himself... How in God’s name, how in hell are they going to fix that hole?
And right then, right there, he knew, that this was… To be continued…
He came to groggy again, just a little bit more than half naked. The plump n' cute neighbor he'd never seen before nor would ever meet again still sleeping… He'd only just noticed the far too large pile of leftover powder ...when. The louder than expected nearby but still distant echoing explosion made him immediately remember. He realized he'd once again traded yet another could have been interesting spectacle, something to be seen, for a night of drinking and debauchery... again… these wasteful trade-offs quickly counting up, to far too many times already. A night of lively and useless conversations, more meaningless Corner-Bar chit-chatter. Instead of getting up a bit earlier than when he'd half fallen asleep... heading on over to Pulaski bridge to watch the controlled-explosion a couple of old, maybe 10 story tall or so decommissioned oil storage tank towers that sat along the Newtown Creek; the industrial ditch of a river that ran through the wasteland that divided Brooklyn, Kings County from Queens.
He lay there half-nakedly missing the pre-planned dropping of Greenpoint’s tallest towers. Trading what anyone who had enough little boy left kicking around inside him would have really not wanted to miss. Damned cocaine. Getting himself up and reaching over the awkwardness of saying his goodbyes to the plump n' cute Greenpoint neighbor; he tucked the leftover cocaine above the medicine cabinet, with all the other things he wouldn't want his then current girlfriend to find... and felt a bit sad, and a bit mad at himself for missing the explosion.
He stood there on 6th Avenue, probably near 22nd or 23rd for what was one of those forever moments that was more likely merely an instant. He became nearly mesmerized by the slowly growing, burning around the edges, hole in the north side of the North Tower. The fires around the edges burning an image far more deeply into him than he ever would have imagined. He was far enough uptown to not really recognize for certain just what those little dark falling things were; the little black dots, mixed in with the other bits and pieces of things that fell from the burning hole. Irregularly falling, black dots, some seeming to simply let go. He'd couldn’t have really known just how much this burning image, how those little black irregularly falling dots he was staring at would been burned into that locked away rarely visited corner of his soul... or how deeply he’d push them into it’s darkest part.
A crowd of people, stopped dead in their tracks in the busiest of cities that was now quickly shutting down, began forming around him. People had come crawling out of this subway entranceway or out of this or that office building doorway. All of them, looking up along with him, horrifiedly grabbing at their own instant forever moments.
Quietly at first, but as it was likely to happen in Midtown Manhatten, it seemed like the site of large looming towers with big burning holes had been given there due share of their “New York Minutes” and almost seemed to become, what… ? …a new normal? Was it just that there was no frame of reference, no context, not enough mental material in all the clutter and confusion? Suddenly, all at once all these New Yorkers were subconsciously prompted to just, oddly, get back into what it was they had been doing. Maybe they were so stunned that they needed to return to, the normal, their phone calls and conversations. They’re rattled brains, confused fears demanded they try to return to getting on with what had been the start of the day. He drifted from his own mesmerized moment to the sound of chit-chatter, random bits and pieces...
"I'm going to be late..."
"…the damned subway's been shut down..."
"I'm looking for a bus, now..."
"…tell them I'm sorry and I'll join them in the conference room as soon as I can"...
As New Yorker's often, no, always do, they all started talking, again, all at once. As if to be even happily sharing another “the usual” minor morning misery, a too long a line up or a late bus… sharing a NYC bitch with anyone next to them that would listen. The NYC bitch, the nattering complaints prompted by the day-to-day annoyances they all loved to hate in a city that demand you loved to hate it... When in New York, you gotta complain, you gatta bitch like a New Yorker. He could never describe to anyone who'd not lived there the civilized camaraderie this continuous complaining fostered. All his neighbors, all these New Yorker knew the bitch and… started a bitchin’ all at once... Obliged to share, everything, each annoying little hassle with each other, one upping each other’s bitch, elevating and exaggerating... even on this day, watching the now normal and growing burning hole, the humor in it all did make it all the more bearable.
He himself had started chatting with the first fella standing next to him, a big guy right beside him. A huge, big bear of a fella in a kinda oddly warm looking for the weather brown vested three piece suit, a big bearded fella.
This fella had gotten through on the phone somehow to the folks he'd meant to be meeting with downtown and was sharing with me, what little info they'd been able to give him. Pretty much more mass confusion; a description of what sounded like utter chaos. No one knowing what to do, nor what would come next... THEN… not a near sounding, but mid-distant, louder than one would have expected explosion… as the North Tower, with that unfixable hole still burning, black dots dropping, letting go... falling... straight into what could best be described as a big billowing mushroom cloud of dust, dirt and still more dust than anyone could ever have imagined... as that once looming tower came down... utter terror... sheer panic... the seemingly long since, now immediately over mesmerizing moment that was trying so hard to become a new normal all at once becoming a , what the hell do we do?
What the hell...
…what the hell were we all to do... now?
Shrieks, and loud shouting. He noticed the big bear of a fella, now his new friend. That big bear of a fella was almost crying... without even thinking he gave him a hug as the big bear, now seeming panic-stricken said "my friends are down there" and took off in some unknown direction... his own little inner-boy, the one still inside him kicking madly and screaming to get even closer. Get down there, help out... ! …over ruled.
He started running in the better direction; to 7th Avenue, towards the makeshift office still vacant... the phone wasn't ringing, neither incoming nor out... no circuits... try after try he'd finally got through... "the second tower's down"... his then current girlfriend, herself now screaming, please meet me, come and help me... the next thing he knew, he was with her outside her office, just up from the backdoor of Macy's. Like everyone around them, scrambled searching inside themselves for, something that on that day had no context, no reference, everyone looking for some plan, something, anything an idea for the next thing to do... the little boy inside him wanting to leave her with someone, head downtown to witness the action... they headed uptown, almost running.
They never would fix that hole, that now forever a memory of a burning hole. It was all over… Well not really over for the rest of that day. The next weeks, months and year after years and years after too many years it would take for all of this bullshit, the towers, his then current girlfriend, everything in chaos to play itself out...
Again, it was a moment that was way to big to fit the time allotted and would likely be… To be continued… fuck… again and again and again…
They stopped for another of those forever in an instant moment in front of some bar, a shop, a blur... A television in the window, a small crowd gathered around repeating all the information anyone had managed to gather; "another plane has hit the Capitol Building", The Pentagon, five more planes, six "...ten more planes reported". More targets, other planes shot down in Connecticut, New Jersey, Pennsylvania... as far as Chicago, LA... RUN! Why? Where? Running on the then current girlfriend's instinct alone ...they continued uptown... away to The Park, then ...they were stopped dead, somewhere in one of those almost skyless, echoing midtown canyons; the roaring screech of a jet engine passed above them.. A panicked look at once consumed her face in utter fear; a broad smile eased over his... relieved.
...distinguishing one plane from another simply by the sound it made: that now glorious subconscious skill, his instinct... All those rumbling drones of the old Hercs, the air transport, cargo plains, all that noise above him he'd hear on the hour in the skies above him growing up in boring old Trenton, Ontario. This sound, the sound above the Midtwon Canyons that day wasn’t the deafening, conversation ending shriek of the 707's, those old airliners... It was the growling roar of a fighter. He knew in that instant, they were all at once, at least for now, out of any immediate danger.
Oddly enough, it was right around where they were, where they had heard the fighter… He was standing merely blocks away from that somewhere, when what could easily have been one hundred years earlier; he had fallen madly and oh so truly deeply in love with New York City. They were in the canyons, on the the west side of Midtown, right around the old Edison Hotel in Hell's Kitchen where, in 1979, just up and over from what was by far, a far more different and dangerous Time Square at the time, he'd fallen in love.
Unlikely, but like a plunging neckline, tight skirts and tall boots danger of was most definitely one of the cities sexiest attractions back in the 70’s. It was right around here that he and his high school classmates would have ventured out into those New York nights in Manhattan. Wandering directly into the directions they were told earlier by their teachers to avoid; towards the Port Authority, over to the far more guttural Times Square... sex shops, live sex shows... tight skirts and tall boots. Hearing all the come ons and the fantasies of all the never quite ending threats. That newly found teenaged tingling sensation that strained directly from the loins, made his breath quicken and his heart pound, just a little bit...excitements. Small town and country kids so completely out of place. He and his friends likely wanting nothing more than to leave, run maybe; him... already planning his return.
On the way out of town from that trip, looking out the bus window, gazing at the burned down Bronx, Harlem, a West Side Story like acid trip on the pills they’d bought in Time Square the night before. A bottle or two of booze he was able to buy his buddies, simply because he was tall... a tour up to the top of those tall towers that loomed so large over this busiest of cities... back then. A three card monty whirlwind of jacked up on blocks, stripped cars, constant sirens, dreamed up gun shots, a whole city that seemed to be shouting to him... see you again, soon. It all happened and was happing again… right there
Sitting on the benches at the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park, a couple of boneheaded hippy kids told some tall tale of how they'd had breakfast in the towers earlier that morning. It was the last time he'd ever again hear an, even in the slightest, exaggerated "where I was... that day" story. Every story from then on would be real, honest and from the deepest part of the teller’s heart.
Stories ranging from I was in LA to, I was on up to the 66th floor. There was no good place to be on September 11th, 2001. No story needing to be embellished. He would hear so many, day after day, year after year. Stories that crept in and out quietly from his own just below midtown. I was down around Union Square and across 14th.
"I was on Bleecker Street..."
"I was just finishing breakfast in Tribeca..."
Stories that traveled down West Broadway, across Canal Street into China Town. Stories travelling closer and closer... on Barkly... Vesey Street... onto the plaza, inside and up the stairwell where those folks, those blessed survivors wound their way so surprisingly calmly down; watching far too many firefighters winding their way up the same stairs, running up... No one; not a single one of them had a clue what the next 10, 15, 20 minutes would bring down around them... all over, those next senseless minutes, senseless hours... day, months, years.
He'd finally convinced his then current girlfriend that they were indeed out of any immediate danger; what jackass would fly his hijacked airliner into the park. The F18s, seemed to fill the sky; he had looked up; caught glimpses of his newest friends. Those fellas who'd be flying sorties, in the only planes above the City for days...
It eventually, simply became time to just head home. Back to Greenpoint, up and over the 59th Street Bridge, a herd of Brooklyn, Kings County n' Queens residents on foot across the lower deck. Sirens wizzing their way in and out of The City across the upper level. Over his right shoulder a sight, he’d always recall how he really didn't want to look at, but couldn't take his eyes off of. He’d never ever forget... that plume of thick black smoke, venting from lower Manhattan... like a puncture wound, a leak... so unreal that if it hadn't continued for weeks, he may have doubted he'd ever seen it... at all, it all made no sense whatsoever... still.
They plunked themselves down in front of CNN with the rest of America, and most of the world. Reports of the Pentagon, the downing in Shanksville. By this time the threat of any other planes in a now completely empty, planeless, still crystal clear, bright and brilliant blue sky was quite over and done with. He'd later recall having not a single memory of what he'd see on TV the rest of that day. He simply plunked in front of a flickering light forming an endless scrawl, a scroll of new data tape worming its way across the bottom of every news report...
An immediate family drama had now taken over and thankfully distracted his then current girlfriend. Her father was missing. His story we'd be told later, started at his office, just across the street from the North Tower... he'd not been heard from for hours... Worry spread through the then current girlfriend’s family and friends. Far too melodramatic phone calls and speculation he'd wanted no part of; he knew George would eventually show up...
George's story started curiously enough with him looking up and wondering, "how are they going to fix that"; but his black dots were much bigger, he saw first hand and right in his face all those people, sadly, simply letting go. Landing more like mud filled potato sacks as they splattered on the ground, all right around him, at his feet... these almost direct hit splattering thuds prompted him to leave just prior to that monstrous dust cloud we now see in ppicture... the collapsing cloud of dust chasing him and the rest of the downtown crowds down the street.
George would describe his diving under a car to escape, not the monstrous dust cloud n' rubble, but from being trampled by crowd of people he'd managed to get himself ahead of... his, choosing the Manhattan Bridge over the Brooklyn ...what his own born and raised in Queen’s instincts would convince him the lesser of two targets... mud filled potato sacks splats...exploding at his feet. His story would be told in bits and pieces and like many who told the same… His story would almost sink him mentaly.
George showed up later that day; becoming just another glorious one. ONE to be subtracted from that long list of the most dreadful number. The count each of us had had thrown into our minds immediately that morning... how many dead? 50,000... 30,000... 15,000... 5, 4, 3... each "ONE" subtracted from those counts, simply a sigh of what little relief was leftover over those next few days... George was eventually found, covered in dust, that deep dark corner of his mind now full of demons he’d spend years trying to evict…
Later that day he would reach above the medicine cabinet, sorting through all the other things he wouldn't want his then current girlfriend to find... in front the TV that would stay on for weeks in search of more info, alerts, still squawking, new news scrawling and scrolling a tapeworm of data that seemed to stretch on and on and on...he did a line, then another line, then he did that last line that separated that sad Sunday morning last weekend with the plump Greenpoint Girl... from, no more leftovers.
He hasn't a clue what they'd get up that evening, doesn't recall sleeping, if they'd gone out and did some drinking... got more lines... crossed, not yet over into the nonsense but nothing likely not anyone could make any sense of... nothing at all certain... except, maybe one thing he hadn't yet noticed.
On this side of that dreadful line... He was now most certainly the New Yorker he’d always hoped he would be.
And, now… is this to be continued... almost for certain. BUT… not anytime soon.
My health is the property of my doctor and my doctor is owned by the drug dealers who drop samples at his office... the CDC and the WHO? They’re owned by Pfizer, Merck, Novartis and... you name it. They own it.
So, this article... file it with the rest. If you can weave a filament through it and gently extract a sliver of truth, great, share it best you can. All I have for you is more agenda driven hogwash...
Until we return to a truer form of market-signal driven capitalism. A system where each of the separate functions maintain some anonymity all we can hope for is a dabble of truth here and modicum of liberty there... “Right to Try” legislation appears to have been a last glimmer of hope under this dark cloud of total nonsense...
Sorry, what was the question again?
I admit to telling salty jokes, insulting people and ironically making fun of racial stereotypes to make salient and sometimes poignant points. Big fucking deal, this is how honest adults communicate. I’ll speak in generalities when addressing “a group”, I’ll even denigrate a “group” if I feel the numbers, I’ve read bare this generalization out, if there’s a documented pattern of statistics. Doing so is not an attack nor a judgement on any one person. Negative criticism of anyone is not necessarily a judgement in the first place.
I find the concept of race itself ridiculous, outdated and for the most part irrelevant in the first place. What scientifically constitutes a race anyway, skin color, eye shape, the consistency of one’s hair? Are these similarities and/or differences really set a measure more than say, cultural traits? I’ve been “married” to three woman who’d be classified as white. They were a Canadian of Scottish decent, a Jewish woman from Queen’s NY and an Italian from Rome. I can say with certainty, the differences between these three women would be substantially more extreme than say a black woman, a white woman and an Asian girl that all grew up in downtown Toronto. My guess is the differences is the latter group would be born more of the heritage of their parents than their skin tone, eye shape or hair consistency.
At the end of the day, I’d rather celebrate each of our differences. I’d rather explore with a friend these differences and marvel in the source of these. I’ve no problem at all ribbing a Jewish pal who partakes in rituals I find odd, argue politics based on traditions and customs. My thinking you are wrong does not and should never imply that I’ve judged myself better than you.
On a final point, designed specifically to piss you off. I do not believe that “diversity is our strength”, not in the slightest. Cultural history will easily bare out that tightly knit, homogeneous tribes and groups are far more easy to organize physically, mentally, socially and economically. Our strength is tolerance. If a primarily “white” or better, “western” group can accept black Africans and Caribbeans into their communities, make but a few cultural demands for cohesion, that community will be a stronger community. If those of different cultural heritages and practices tolerate the practices of each the other, all the better. We can all agree, sharing dishes and dances of one another, while displaying pride in our own makes for the best of parties. History also proves, that over time when and if two disparate groups “come together” either in peace or at war, these culures will blend from one another over time, naturally. This may be or may not be for “the good”. But then again, who are we to judge what’s good?
You might wonder, where’s the line here? Where is the measuring point? Couldn’t tell you, don’t care. When it comes to artist for which I’ll draw this line, I’ll draw it wherever I damned well please. When it comes to fictional moving picture, art that hangs on the wall or novels, who cares really, it’s entertainment. Even if the writers or directors try and sneak in “the narrative” it’s usually as easy to spot as any typical product placement. I don’t go to “movies” or a gallery to learn something. I attend these things, waste my money on them to tune out for a few hours.
So, why not go see the new DeNiro flick? He’s a doorknob, a sad little man. If you look closely, he can’t really act, the characters he has portrayed are all various versions of the same, tough guy. He’s more boring than watching Woody Allen be Woody Allen in all his films. Same goes for Tom Hanks and Kevin Spacey… dicks.
Worry not though my friend. You are more than welcome to disagree and enjoy all the works of all these dudes. I won’t think any more or less of you. As noted, none of this crap is of any real meaning. It’s all either mindlessness or mockingbird propaganda. If I want to actually look at it, I can usually see throw it in minutes. If it’s a good little story I’ll enjoy it… and …if Denzel is in it… I’ll probably fucking love it.
Twitter, Facebook, Google et al host my tweets, posts, photos and videos. I maintain full ownership and am liable for what I say or post. IF Twitter, et al want to edit, they are in fact now publishing, and in turn liable for this content. They can’t just cherry pick and edit me and maintain the cover of being a platform. This is the way it should be. We cannot start destroying the provider of the bookshelf for books you want to burn. We cannot sue car companies when someone wipes out your family in a crash, not can we sue Remington if one of their rifles ar used in the next school shooting.
This debate will always be very entertaining. Personal agency must be maintained. If we start blaming all our acts, either intentional or accidental on our tools, the person disappears. If I have threatened you in one of these stories. We cannot go after the printing house that printed and bound ths book; nor the provider of the digital form. Who will be there to “move our ideas” if doing so risked the mover as much if not more than the creator of these thought.
Well that question indeed has got me thinking. Well, OK, there are more than a few of you out there with strong doubts as to the possibility of my having any ability at thinking at all… so, for your sakes, we'll revise this to, got me a ponderin’. So what is it about Mayor Bonehead vs. The Oh-So-Downtown-n-Progressives that leaves me not able to simply, look away? What?
The pun-dent/press/media angle might appear kinda nifty, but... I mean this showing off just how ridiculous the wank... er wonk-industry has become, especially in parallel with the bizarre, is it a Byzantium pantomime, or is it just more Western Roman-esq skull-dramatic-drudgery; you know Obama fucking and knifing the people who love(d) him the absolute most-est best-est there in back; OK, maybe not fucking and knifing the associate ones, but you know, kinda listening in on their phone calls and reading their emails and all that… Actually, I wonder how many nice things he's learned about himself?
No, it's not really the press-angle, not how the Canadian version of "the mainstream press" has bent over backward over four-words even n' letters to or from the Editor no less. How every news-bit seems to need three minutes of back-spin-spun pre-amble reminding us that "these are only allegations", seriously "these are only allegations" before the talking heads spend the next ten minutes raking Mister big ol' Pink-Belly over the red-hots... Ya, OK that's been pathetically fun to watch, read and listen to... but.
OK… I don't think I'll ever have a bigger laugh at the news than I did when I read the Editor (no less) of the venerably ancient and olden glorious Globe and Mail use the words "…Canada' most powerful political family in Canada's biggest (most important implied) City" to describe, who-huh, really, The Fords? ...prior to launching a two-page investigative report that basically confirmed that these Ford brothers WERE, exactly as we suspected, those "feathered back" hair dudes driving late model 1970's beat up 'n old semi-muscle Chevy's up and down the streets of (Scarborough?) selling dope to future council-men hippie-wanna-be's who'd just applied to Hart House… Powerful, yep… I heard their next act is gonna be opening a meth lab on the Bridalpath… BUT, no no no, it's NOT that (even if it is… a bit)
I think that it's simply… This has been news item has become the most brazenly obvious example of the epic struggle me and my name-less generation has found ourselves, well struggling a bit with… You know... the battle of...
The Righteousness VS The Arrogance… Indeed
Short of Hollering out and almost halving to recuse myself, I will admit, I have over the years sullied my spotless reputation as a right-in-the-middle kind hearted kinda somewhat-soulless sound-offer by, maybe, on occasion or two, sidling up to and siding with the "righteous" once or two times few often. I won't bother to point out that there's a personal back-story behind that and, best to leave the horror-show alone for now. HEY, I just have a soft spot for simplicity and a not-so-sexy snake oil salesmen selling discounted common-sense by the ballot-box load; well, ya… they got and may still get a good chunk of my ear-time, and BUTT, do trust me when I say… I am getting tired of it ALL.
Of course I'm nowhere near as tired of the snake-oilers as I am of the save-them from themselves crowd; you know the ones who haven't the faintest notion of how ironically horrendous they sound as they say something like "You know…" OR "Have you ever considered… if they'd just eat better, maybe a little less Kraft dinner and coke-a-cola..." as they put down their menu and ask… "have you tried their Manicotti Fiorentina? Is it any good here? More wine?" - What can I say, I find it easier to giggle at the righteous than I do being in utter aghast at the arrogant.
To be quite honest… I'm starting to come to the notion that both side I find myself and my dear friends on becoming very tiresome… When was the last time I OR anyone else had an original idea or complaint for that matter.
AND, all joking aside for a split second at least. What's dying before our very eyeballs here is any semblance of empathy. We all seem so happy making up or cracking the late-night rim-shot one liners OR playing meme-volly-ball on Faithbook; bouncing 'em back and forth between our link-minded pals-n-selves with nary a care of ever really putting one over the net. We seem to be satisfied with simply scowling at one another and patting each other on the backs again each time the next sound-byte calamity bowls us over over the air-waves… sigh, I did say… we.
Sadder yet… the only ones who seem to be making any headway, gaining any ground in this epic battle for whats left of our tinee-tiny little holy-souls are the ones who bank and back both sides. The ones who air the message, laugh at us while they sniff their maple-scented wondrous one hundred dollar bills while we're lined up to pay 'em a buck and a quarter to draw our last 20 outta their convenience machines…
Yup, seem's like it's still the end of the twentieth century here in too-ought '13. The arrogant hold the House while the righteous hold… well, the other house; we hold nothing; empathy dies on the vine and to the GREEDY go the spoils of this silly little thing we can't seem to stop wanting to go to war for.
Yikes… I think I just stopped smiling.
arrogance: overbearing pride evidenced by a superior manner toward inferiors.
righteousness: adhering to perceived moral principles.
This episode brought to mind the time my second ex-wife brought our two stupid cats to the vet for a check-up. Why you’d bother going paying for a vet to check anything on your dumb cat short of having a leg dangling from a bloody starnd of skin or ligament. She called me from the Vet to assure me that the cats were indeed OK, but, the Vet suggested they would benefit from having their teeth cleaned. I think she knew my eyes were rolling when I assured her that cats have been living in the wild for millions of years without access to a a toothbrush so…
A few years later, she called about the same cats, this time assuring me that they required treatment that was going to cost at least $200+ each. I asked her to get a quote from the vet for the cost of putting them down; (I later researched this and found it would be about the same if not a little bit less). I told her, listen, if these cats are broken to the tune of requiring repairs in the range of two hundred bucks, let’s just turn these one’s in cut our losses and find two working cats, we could probably get ‘em free somewhere.
Obviously, this is me starting the process of looking for my third wife. It’s two bad all the timing was wrong. The tattooed now Swedish Art Teacher was pretty cute and who knows, maybe she would have been up for getting one of those mini-pigs for a pet and we could have had the “makin’ bakin’ conversation a few years don the road. Women make lousy pets.
Wait, what? You didn’t know we were at war? You didn’t see, it was an act of war? Remember that time He had the Chinese Premier over for dinner. That first time he hosted a major Head of State, at his private castle, on the beach, down in Florida? Wait, you don’t remember that? Do you recall how he fed him a nice meal; they appeared to be having a nice chat… Remember when, during dessert, I’m pretty sure it was ice cream, I think they each had two scoops when. Remember how he excused himself and went off to a backroom somewhere and fired 156 Exocet missiles into some bunker, some unmanned ammo dump in Syria, you know well not in the middle east but close enough up in the Levant. You didn’t notice this? You don’t remember this? You don’t understand what he was saying to his dinner guest do you? His dinner guest who had been ramming his war ships in the South China Sea and teasing and taunting a few of our friends over in, that part of the world... He was basically telling them, his dinner guests that he was going to take our business back, screw the debt we owe them and... go ahead, try to fight us with the weapons systems the last “guy” left for you on her wide open, un-password-protected bathroom server up in Chappaqua... there may not have been 100,000 dead Americans this time but, this war was and remains way past cold.
Ok, at a top-like level, these goofy, happy avatar thingies that people use instead of real photos on their various social media pages are kinda more than cringeu... If you dig a bit deeper and recall that this really took off as a partctice around the time we where about three months into that bizarre (some might even say ridiculous), fear induced lockdown. Here we were all stuck inside at home with family or friends and we were what, creating stylized cartoon versions of ourselves? It’s a wonder that our children’s eyes didn’t start to roll up into the back of their heads; that they didn’t all at once sit straight up, all together, all at once, turning to face us… They didn’t begin walking slowly, silently in unison towards us.., that they didn’t just eat us... These cartoon avatars, were and still are cringle levei ten kinda level creepy... no? ...no? really… wait for it. They will one day, eat us. It’s not just myth.
Nobody really gives a shit about cartoon Muslims or cartoon Drag Queens dressed cringingly in a fashion that’s purely meant to appear alarming, if they stay away from the kids. I can’t think of any single person I know, including my extremely devout Christian cartoon middle American family from Iowa friends that would do anything but chuckle if they came upon a late night adults only drag show at some sad old gay bar somewhere on the left side of town.
Now, to be absolutely clear, I do know people who are more than a bit reticent at the whole idea of being shamed because they wouldn’t want their toddler exposed to a 200lb Drag Queens with no underwear reading to them about Sally having two mom’s at the public Library; and rightfully so. Most drag is by nature “sexualized” and no one wants their tiny tots sexualized, BY ANYONE. I also have pals who don’t wanted to be shamed for being a bit suspicious of how Sharia Law appears to be making inroads into our legal and cultural systems. Traditions and a way of life that has been carved out of a our Judio-Christian framework... The key concept here, I have friends who don’t appreciated being “shamed” for… having totally legitimate opinions, ideas and concerns.
Personally, I believe myself to be totally, one hundred percent liberal in the definition set forth by great men like Adam Smith, John Stewart Mills and on through maybe Jefferson Jefferson; later re-established socially and economically by the likes of Hayek, Nosiak and Freedman. To be clear, I am most definitely a “get off my back jack” you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you, liberal. I’m also a strong believer in heritage, traditions and the conservation of practices and rituals that add meaning to these glorious lives we given. That’s right, I am a liberal with conservative ideals. If it ain’t broken and it ain’t hurting anyone, stop trying to fix and/or change it and stop telling people to stop doing it.
No one I know lives a cartoon life on either end of these silly political spectrums. Nor does anyone I know live in the middle. Everyone I know lives their lives on both ends and the middle all at once. The “real” people I know all want to live a nice life, not hurt anyone and, if given the time want to move our little civilization here, forward. Namely in the direction of good, friendly and tolerant. After years of observation, all I can tell is the difference between me and anyone else remains slight and mostly in the idea of how to make this move forward possible. I’ve also noticed, the only way to come to an agreement on this is, to fight it out, tooth n’ nail, passionately, sometimes patriotically… with respect and love for one another. See? Liberal.
My second “wife” and I were about just over midway through a whirlwind western holiday that so far had included a three day train ride across America, from NYC to LA, a beautiful (maybe the most beautifulest of drives ever) up the Pacific Coast Highway, through the land of Citizen Cane and on up to San Francisco. After a few days of over-the-top partying with pals who’d just moved there, it was time to continuje on. The plan was to head through the hills to Lake Tahoe and then on down to Las Vegas for a final bit of total debauchery singing back to LA and then home again… on the train again.
Sadly Mother Nature, who apparently has a large investment there on the west coast, sadly a bigf ol’ storm had decided to roll in having us having to cancel travling through some treacherous pass we’d have to travel through to get to Tahoe. We settled for a direct shot across the hills and a quick drive through the interior of California. This change in plans started with changing our route which included a start across the Golden Gate to one which had us driving across the big ol’ bay Bridge. No bother really, I’d satisfied my bridge obsession having walked the Golden early in the trip.
The storm that shut down the pass was already raging across the city as we set out on that day’s drive. On we went to Interstate 80 and up onto the Bay Bridge. The wind was howling as we lurched our way onto the bridge, a bit of a thrill even just sitting in the car. The traffic wasn’t to tight and we were moving along quite nicely on the upper deck when, on the outside lane, I spotted a dude up ahead. He was out his car and appeared to be dragging something way to huge for one guy to be dragging, alone, in the howling wind and now horizontal rain that came with it.
I’m usually a pretty nice guy but I don’t normally stop to help strangers, doing strange things in strange cities. Against the wishes of my then second “wife” I pulled over behind him to see what was what and to see if I could give him a hand. I believe, subconsciously my bridge-loving mid simply saw an opportunity to take a walk on a big old bridge that had no walkway. Kind of the same reason I always want to sign upo for the New York City Marathon, simply to walk upon the Verrazano.
He seemed to be grateful as I approached him with a smile. As I got closer, I took a closer look at what it was he was dragging but didn’t quite put it all together until I notice the small pick-up truck he was dragging it towards. It was one of those custom fit plastic linings you can buy to put in the bed of your Pick-Up; it had blown itself out of his truck and onto the road, right here in the middle of the old big and ugly Bay Bridge in San Francisco.
I immediately got beside him to help him drag it. It was heavier than all get out. It seemed like forever but it probably only took a few minutes to get it to his car. The cars in the next lane over would slow to take a look but kept just whizzing on buy. When we got it to his truck, we moved it alongside where we’d have to lift it to place it back into the bed of his truck. If that would even work. The wind was holing so loud we really could only grunt and gesture simple plans on what we’d try to do to get it in. The plan seemed to be, lift it up and drop it into place, best we could, if it worked.
I went to the back, he stood up front close to the cab of the truck. I figured I had the easy end as it would be a bitch to wrestle it around while being behind the cap… UP we lifted it. It was a little bit lighter than I’d feared when… All of a sudden, a howling gust caught hold of it, and this huge chunk of plastic went sailing out of our hands, over the side of the bridge, hundreds, maybe thousands of feet above the roiling San Francisco Bay below. As it disappeared into the cloudy fog of a rainy blowing day, I looked at this new pal I’d stop to help and… all we could both do was to shrug. It was so loud, I couldn’t even hear if he’d had said much of a “thank you” as he got in his truck and I wandered back to my car.
From time to time, I still wake up to this day wondering what would have happened if I’d been holding this truck bed lining in just a slightly different way; if my jacket sleeve had got caught on it’s corner. Probably more than a dozen times I’ve awoken with a start as I’ve dreamed myself being flung up n’ over and off the edge of that big old ugly bridge. It’s easily been one of a dozen of those images that form in your mind as you’re walking close to another tall bridge on a nice day along it’s walkway without all that wind. As I think about it now, my son having been up and over the bridge a few times with his new Californian friend… I guess there could have been worse ways to die. I mean considering how much I love bridges and all.
Social Score has been around forever, we score all our interactions instinctively, mostly subconsciously. This is how we make and maintain relationships. That said, codifying it, quantifying it digitally and given the control over our Social Score to a central authority, as ranked by strangers, customers who, in the end having nothing to fear by how I rank them is... the end of us. And in the end, I think this is exactly what these Gender Studies students, want… The end of US.
Just out of curiosity, as a white, English speaking male of Judaeo-Christian origin, what did I ever do to you? Specifically... I’m mean, other than call you a stuopid fucking cunt (behind your back)? What has my white, male western son ever done to you? I mean, he hasn’t even really had the time or the chance. Why does my Board of Directors need to diversify? Why can’t I open an all-boys-only club and sell what I want to whomever wants what it is I am selling? We both know why, and neither of us are stupid enough to say it to one another. Like most companies, I’ll let the marketing guys decide who looks best on my Board of Directors. Because, diversity is really just that, looking good.
PART TWO
It Came Crashing Down?
more on this fare later... for now... this fare...
...this was it. So far this all seemed as though it was going to be pretty much, a routine job. Some might call it a dead-end job, maybe a dead-end job with the opportunity for pleasant surprises from time to time to be more optimistic. Meh, he’d think to himself, it was better than delivering pizzas which he had one to fill the gap, the few weeks required to check off all the boxes, get the test results and the approval for his hack license. This was it though, it felt most assuredly like this was indeed the absolute end of any hope of returning to his “career”… his twenty-five some-odd (sometimes very odd) year foray into “the tech world”, digital marketing, start-ups, bright lights, big cities. This was it… small town cabbie. One door closes…
So, here he was, hangin' out, camped in ZONE 2. More than likely this was yet another rookie mistake. How much time did he waste in those first few weeks, hanging out in the wrong zone at the wrong time of day? After a dreadfully long wait camped out in ZONE 2, a call finally came over the screen; Amey’s was up to date and using tablets to display dispatch info for their drivers.
“PICK UP: (xx) Thomas Steet DESTINATION: UNKNOWN”
Sometimes dispatch would give the driver complete trip info, most times not. He assumed they thought this tactic kept drivers from turning down “short trips” or trips to parts of town they didn’t want to end up in, drive back from. Given this pick-up location, a pickup on Thomas Street, he was ready to be haulin’ some riff raff. Even after just the one day of training, he’d been in the little-city long enough to knows good neighborhoods from bad. Immediately he’s thinking. it'll be another trip to the methadone clinic, the little hole in the wall, crack in the floor shithouse over on Hickson.
As he pulled up, standing outside the address on Thomas was a rough n’ tumble but more or less harmless lookin' youngster. None to threatening, pony tailed, in construction clothing; the guy’s off to work, that’s usually a good thing. A plus for someone from this particular part of Thomas. The young guy meets him on the street... "I’m headin’ to the Kingston Solar Farm... it’s out on Unity Road"... He enters Unity Road into my GPS, no luck... probably spelled it wrong. No worries, early on in this new career of his, most of his fares where good people. I mean, it’s a small city. Kingston’s no exception and most people were more than happy to assist him in finding directions to all those places he’d one day know like he’d lived there all his life.. It would take a little more time learning how to get around this place than he had first expected... one day, with ease. He originally, probably too boldly thought, he kind of knew where everything WAS, he just didn’t know what everything was called. As he had a few too many times before, how hard could it be to figure all this out. As was always the case, and he was soon to finally learn once and for all… Nothing, absolutely nothing turns out the was one expects it to…
So... here he was on his second day in on his own, his first full morning... a pleasant and pretty nice surprise. An opportunity to take a bit of a longer jaunt, a ways up north of the tiny-hustle and little-bustle of this teenie-tiny little-limestone... oh and look… through the woods, past some sheep... things were looking up! As he dropped his fare off at Kingston’s solar power array, he noticed a bit of a mist was forming and rising off he fields. He pulled around, headed back to the pasture full of sheep he’d noticed ealier, stopped, paused his dispatch display, got up and out and sucked in the beautiful part of the day… If he was going to let his ego take a beating like this; he was still feeling this to be a huge step down. If he was going to spend some time doing what that nagging voice inside him said, was trying to quietly convince him, was beneath him… if he was… he figured he might as well shut the fuck up, take it in… see what he could get from all this… if he was going to bide his time waiting for something better to come along… he took a deep breath, turned his head towards the pale outline of the sun that was hiding behind the morning’s mist, squinting, smiling… laughing at himself for the yet another situation he’d got himself into and laughing louder at thinking it beneath him… He thought there as he was enjoying the morning. If you’re going to do the world’s simplest of jobs, might as well enjoy it, might as well do it up right.
FIND A WAY, BEFORE THE CRASH
Is the really a beginning, really an end? A better question is there really anything we call the space and the time between these two points? Maybe it all just a series of pointless “nows”, stuck together like soiled pages in that magazine you found out back… when, back... ?.. back then?
Looking back, maybe one of the few good things about the crash was it affording him an opportunity to remind himself just how much he hated loving this job. How much he hated the idea that simply driving folks, the people he lived with in this little-bitty-city around in tight little circles. How he despised liking the drive up one of these little tiny streets then coming back down the next road to, if he’d really thought about it, nowhere but the other end of this tiny town he somehow found himself, stuck in?
Uptown, towards the highway you’d use for getting out of town, up on Sir John to the 401; but not this time, first a turn, across the little city along John Counter; later, find himself going down on Princess, in the direction of Montreal, then right towards the hospitals. Taking thses nice people to and from work and off to the the trains, planes and buses that would take ‘em out of here and off to other their own tiny, shiny towns...
Every day, just how many more times up Brock and down Johnson? How many more, yet another left turns, onto Bagot... a swirling haze of thoughts from long ago days… thoughts that grabbed his attention when they shouldn’t. Memories of an argument and arguments that had only taken place in his mind, a memory of... was she an old friend? She wasn’t even a really a friend even; just someone he liked jousting with, and on occasion wanted to fuck. All this and more in his mind in a single moment, at the wrong moment, no starting point, no end...
Another illusional in-between that old life and the life he was driving around in circles in now… like so many times, before? …inbetween one chapter and the next; really what the heck was he doing thinking of her? …when... in an instant, a first ever missed signal… through a red and whamo… right into the side of a snowplow blade affixed to the front of a late model Ford F250... the crash, his first crash… this chapter of his life, this life a life that started in a lovely mist… this part of his life was behind him now...
But not before…
Of course, he’d heard the local’s stories, crazed drunken street parties, overturned police cars, open bonfires on major thoroughfares, a naked teen, left for dead, tied to telephone poll in hazing prank gone bad; again, nothing really stood out as all that special or severe. Having started this new “job” at the end of summer, this gig he hated to love, his first experience with these Uni-students would be on move-in day. From what he’d been told, it was indeed a money-makin’ day. Thirty thousand or so boneheaded under-developed little almost-adults; 4,000 to 5,000 of ‘em dumber-than-dumb, fresh-faced first-year freshmen. All these freshmen moving away from home for the first time, then the only a year older and none the wiser sophomores moving into their first apartments for the first time ever. All spit n’ vigor… and gloriously kenetic enthusiasm.
Around mid-morning on move-in day, he was already having what might just have been the busiest n’ best business day he’d had so far in his Amey’s Taxi, CAR 29. Call after call, drop off n' pick-ups, one right after the other, not a single stop, definitely no camping out in ZONE 2.
The more senior students, second, third and fourth years where all coming in off the bus or train, both stations a bit further out along the edges of town than you’d expect made for a nice midrange fare. A ten-to-fifteen-minute trip to the neighborhood all these limestone-locals called, “the Ghetto”. Picking ‘em up, one fare after another, drooping ‘e,m off and turning around to pick up another and another, it was like shovelin’ coal. No backflips, U-turns or three pointers, just smooth sailing, back n’ forth. Swinging around n around in a looping, not-so-little limestone-circle.
There was the odd trip, a bit of a relief when one of the students need to zip into town or off to one of the malls or plazas to pick up something they needed to make their shitty little student house a home for the year. On one of these “relief missions” while zipping along Bath, towards the Riocan Plaza, just beyond the decrepitly old and now mostly defunct Frontenac Mall, out towards Gardiner Road, he noticed a larger than usual plane coming into the little city’s teenie-weenie airport that, until recently he’d never even really believed was really there... (he had made a mental note of plane, figuring it’s a good fare from the imaginary airport all the way to the ghetto).
After a few little trips around “the burbs”, he remembered the plane and figured, well... I may as well push on along westward, a little further out and see who and how many get off that plane... He’d never picked up a flier and figured it an opportunity to learn how the airport taxi-stand worked... he found ...a long line of "little kids" each with bigger and more baggage than the next one would ever have imagined it were possible to drag through an airport.
It’s move in day, he’d heard stories... there’s money to be made all over the ghetto but, avoid the campus if you can... avoid ZONE 6, AND, avoid the first year residence on campus at ALL COST! 'cause, it'll cost ya… it’s nothing but a long line of stressed out parents taking way too much time to tearfully say their first goodbyes to their bratty little squirts…
His fare, the next guy in line, was of course… a freshman. On his way to Morris Hall. One of the older residences on the corner of the campus.
These freshman boys really are the youngest of the lot, mentally, maturely physically and retardedly. Way more still just little kid like than the little girls who are even more little but have least started to develop a little sense. This kid was still all up n’ bouncy after a over-night flight from Calgary to Toronto, then onto his connection to our little local airport. The Norman Roger's City of Kingston Regional Air Terminal was less an Airport, more an expanded flyin' club... a big bus terminal really. All flights in and out were simply to and from Toronto.
The kid huffed his oversized suitcases, all three of them, into the trunk and backseat of the car, all wide eyed and a little nervous as kids get while doing first things first for likely the first time by themselves... This little kid was almost certainly exhausted but high on being on the cusp of starting the next big thing, the biggest thing yet to ever happen. Spunky… buzzing, scared and tingling enthusiasm dripping off the corner of his ear to ear smile.
As they pull out onto Front... as they pull out of the airport and rolled along the road that runs along the lake and leads into the city; they’d easily have gotten that fresh whiff of windswept white caps that blows off the lake in late August, early September. That freshwater alge smell that always let him know he was more or less home. The trip afforded a gorgeous shoreline view. His fare, this little guy literally exploding with joy as they rolled along towards his immediate future… he didn’t even need to glance in the rearview to see the anticipated-thrill growing in the kid’s eyes. He lets out an inaudible series of sheepishly, wow-ishy boy-like little squeaking noises,
He asked... "Have you visited Kingston before?"
...the kid had only been there once, last year, in the dead of winter for a quick overnight in and out visit while surveying a bunch of Universities out here in the East. He and his dad ha d taken a long weekend tour trying to decide which of the one’s who’d let him in he’d like best to attend... chitter chatter...
… whatcha going to be studyin'?
The boy offered little bits and pieces of his personal history n' all that kinda ho and hum fodder that filled the gaps as they drove by the old Dupont factory that looked like a small oil refinery... past the new condos… the Park and the insane asylum… the Olympic harbor and the now defunct Old Kingston Pen… into to one of the absolutely nicer parts of town…
When they break past the last lakefront house along the King Street shore, right where the view opens and you get a view of the lake again, Breakwater Park... the kid lets out a little gasp... knowing they were headed to Morris Hall, he had the kid turn his head just a little to the left, opposite this view of the lake...
"You'll be living right there..."
The next 45 minute of snarled traffic that snaked through the campus on this, move-in morning, was a lot easier with a kid who couldn’t believe his luck. He’d be living lakeside, across the road from what passed for a beach in this little-city ... Queens University really does have a stunner of a campus! Any fresh-faced moronic little kid would be happy to attend. This kid was one of the happier ones.
Grumble?
Oh sure they're a bunch of drunken idiots. They make a big mess, throw beer bottles all over the place and light things that shouldn't really be burned on fire. Many have a ridiculously unearned sense of entitlement, an over-confidence, especially when travelling in packs. They're dreadfully young, way under-dressed for any weather, goofy, annoyingly loud... but...
They’re yet to be weighed down by the day-to-day drudgery, still unbridled. They’re teaming with unchecked enthusiastic energy! Sometimes, many times he’d find his conversation with them, with all their just past teenaged optimism all kinda well… bloody well infectious, and… a much needed relief from this “moment of change” that had taken over this part of his life. He wasn’t a fresh-faced as the little boy but the moment was something new for him as well…
Welcome to Kingston boneheads!
This chapter had begun. The page had been turned. Almost arrogantly, stupidly, most likely fearfully, he still held on to the barest of threads, with little hope that something might just come along, spring out of nowhere that would fling him back onto and along the path he hadn’t yet admitted had come to an end…
BUSTED INTO PIECES
...he had the reoccurring dream again... waking up in a drenching cold sweat… he hadn’t attended a single class all semester... he did not learn how to bake potato buns, and was now faced with the exams that will decide his entire future... he looked around the exam hall for an exit. The proctor glared at him, the only one with his head still up. It was all over, unprepared, all his flaws would now be exposed…
The car, his car, good old CAR 29 crumpled instantly and busted into pieces exactly where it was designed to. The wrap-around plastic bumper simply ripped away from the rest of the body exposing just how cheaply mad and ugly these form-over -functional pieces of parts made in China-made crap cars really were. A rectangular piece of extruded pipe, wrapped in Styrofoam exposed itself as the true bumper. The car, his CAR, CAR 29 now had a bit of a Mad Max character... Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friend, why then, do we keep on...
At this moment, this very instance, he was faced with a true and paralyzing realization, this was the end of his cab driving days. Panic, sadness, fear of (at this time), not knowing what would replace this joy, how would he pay the rent, how he could easily fill the... gaps… the holes…
The great big fella that had been driving the snowplow was now staring at him, standing on the road between the plow he’d struck and CAR 29… with it’s now peeled away wrap-around plastic bumper, gnarled, crumpled on the ground. It was still loosely attached, somewhere, somehow to the front of his car... Screaming, or at least ready to scream… slowly resigning to the fact he indeed had just had the crash, he got out of the car. He let the great big fella have his say, he ripped into him.
He knew it was all his fault, ha had missed the signal, he’d run the red. He knew he had momentarily lost concentration... his train of thought. He had stepped out of the “now” one needs to be in in order to operate a motorized vehicles on a mildly busy street. He could have flown into a rage himself, at himself, a form of cover, a sad attempt to save some grace; He’d done this before, he’d often invent dramatic situations that he could get angry with rather than more aptly being angry with himself. We all do. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to hide our mistakes, our shortcomings… He didn’t want do this any longer.
He waited for a pause in the big fella’s rant to quietly say, “I’m sorry.” Really what more than sorry was there to say? It’s not like he could have explained how far away he’d let his mind wander. It’s not like he could describe how he’d been tossed into an illusion, fighting with some curly haired chick in Greenpoint Brooklyn. An imaginary tiff over some bit of un-chewed politics he’d been gnawing on all morning. He couldn’t try to explain all this away with one simple little… but, you know... “I was attracted to her.” “I really wanted to get in her pants...”
This simple little honestly spoken little sorry was likely what calmed the big fella don a notch. The great big guy’s beast act became a not completely pleasant but more easy going kinda, let’s sort this out tone. And they did, begin to sort it all out… like adults, like men.
“I saw you coming at me... “I kept think, he’s gonna stop, is he gonna stop? He’s not gonna stop, shit, he’s not gonna...”
…oh stop…
The old hometown was usually a nice place to start a mindless conversation. The conversation eventually drifted from the old hometown to the standard "thank you for your service" spiel. The gracious spiel he enjoyed the opportunity to drop on any and all service men he’d meet. All the firemen, cops n' soldiers who’d toil away in harm’s way on his behalf.
All in all it was a nice trip and a pleasant conversation with a couple of young guys who were humble enough to know their rank was as much for public relations as it was any definition of their leadership. Sure, both had one tour under their belts, served "overseas" which, for guys of their age meant they’d served in Canada’s mission in Afghanistan and/or Bosnia. These past few years, he’d not met a military man who hadn’t served in Afghanistan, Bosnia, often both. One thing in common with all guys who’d served abroad, in battle situations; the less the say about the deployment, the tougher it was. These guys told some great stories from, well let’s say well behind the line. Good guys all the same though... no tip though... it happens.
Later tge same day, he got another opportunity to drive another opportunity, this time to take a freshly minted Major to the train station. Again, his standard “thank-you for your…” spiel… this time though, it led to the freshly minted Major’s story about a recent and interesting trip to NYC, he’d been there a few times. The Major had recently gone to the Big Ol’ City to attend the Electronic Music Festivals out on Randall's Island... a "three day" party.
Having never had made it to the Randall’s Island party, even though it would have been right up his alley, the jibber-jabbered on about this DJ n' that... it was clear the Major had enjoyed pretty much the same scene's he’d seen over the years... Outside dancing his bars off on Randall’s Island, the soldier’s shining-star story was his organizing a military-leave from Afghanistan for him and a few pals to dance to some spinners in Cote D'azur… He and the major bounded over a bunch of shit they’d seen and done over the years… "cool man".
As they turned into the VIA railway Station they both agreed on how peaceful and respectful the vibe at all those parties had been... the Major agreed to giving the band Bedouin a listen too… and he was happy to think he might... All in, a good guy... a ten-dollar tip... it happens.
It’s a little bit funny how subtle the military presence is felt in this town. A town where the harbor is essentially a strung-out fortress, a series of old building built to defend this colony from the yanks across the river. The earliest seat in Canadian Military History. The home of Canada’s scared Military College, the place where they “build the brass”. There seems to be a cannon on every corner... but, once you’re off the base, any sense of the Department of Defense seems to be on the other side of that morning’s glorious sunrise… over the Fort.
Thanks for your service guys…
WHILE IN BROOKLYN… REALLY?
It was one of those mornings when it sounded like all those voices around him, and all the thoughts inside his own head were being spoken with a Yiddish accent. A right there in the middle of Brooklyn Yiddish accent no less.
…the state of shock he found himself in had easily been brought on by the fear of losing his job, his livelihood. It wasn’t that he’d just swung around a corner drove a block down the street, missed a signal and rammed into that snowplow. In the past, he’d never let himself feel certain things. Things like he was feeling now, dread over the littlest of things… Nope, in the past he had to elaborate on it all; he had to concoct some bigger meanings… For now all he felt was remorse and dread…
He and the big fella began sorting out the pieces of this far too simple puzzle. He’d run the red, and neither of them had the time to steer away from or break to avoid the collision. Regardless of the better idea to never admit fault at the scene of and accident, he immediately and happily, not sheepishly, capitulated by admitting he was in the wrong. He was happy to immediately take blame. To do otherwise would have been dishonest and well, simply stupid. The big fella called the cops, they drifted in and out of friendly conversation as they waited...
Now, he wouldn’t admit to nor did he have to admit the details of his “brown out”. He only had to wonder aloud to having no clue as to how, why his mind had wandered off from behind the wheel.... Shaking his head, he’d only say, “I simply day dreamed my way through the light, I guess...” He said it a few different ways; likely practicing how he might say it for the police, who were still on their way... taking their sweet time as their cars, his truck and his cab littered and mostly blocked the now more busy intersection at Brock and Bagot.
They’d wait for the cops long enough to let the conversation to devolve into mindless chitter chatter. Perhaps both of them wanting to just get on with their day or perhaps wanting to feel like they were doing something a little more constructive when the cops showed up and asked ‘em to “...lets move this off the street” “...did you take pictures?”
They snapped a bunch of shots on their phones, he hopped in CAR 29, realizing he could still back up even with the bumper hanging half off... He never would give these photos to anyone, or use them for anything as, the whole damned crash seemed to just simply vanish and stopped meaning anything... after it did finally cost him this job.
The cop was very nice about the whole thing. Likely noting that the only explanation was, yet another cab driver allows himself a distraction after countless hours driving around in tight little circles along the same roads. He runs a red light and smacks into a truck... nobody got hurt. It would likely be settled without the insurance companies... he’d fill out a report and let it... what? Although it’s likely sitting out there somewhere in some file in some pile, he never got charged with anything... it all seemed to have simply disappeared, it went away... oddly quicker than these things seem to never do...
...reminding himself, just how much he hated loving this job.
How much he enjoyed doing almost nothing more than driving around and speaking with people. How he could get up each morning, a bit early even than he’d like to... Sure it invaded his most favorite time of the day, but he’d happily replaced that time of day with a good ride in a nice car. Rather than feel he had to make, or do, or build something he’d simply drive to the garage, pick up his car, sing the same song in his head and drive to the edge of the river to read his bible, pray he was growing a bit each day, say some prayer, begin his day at the boatyard and... What? Pray… ? …really?
There really is nothing more frightening than one’s routine coming crashing down around oneself. Oh, perhaps realizing you have a routine might come close, but to lose the comfortable fortress you’ve built around really doing nothing, getting very little done, in a moment, at the edge of a snowplow at the moment of impact. Fear, shock, dread... As he rolled along Division Street, now in the cab of the tow truck the owner had sent to pick up his crashed car, he awoke from the fears, still in shock to realize the next big “thing” in his life, the next moment he’d have to face don would be the reaction, the response of his owner.
“FUCK”
The other night he pushed his exhaustion through a meeting with friends, then onto another together with another friend. The next night he then pushed it what might be even bit too far beyond by trying to get a few things too many errands he needed doing, done. He had left grocery shopping to the very last minute then, upon finishing that chore up, wolfed down four frozen burgers before desperately trying to drop into bed before nine-thirty. That night, an unfathomable, almost ghostly too totally real n' unreal image haunted him all through the night. A silhouetted couple in a brightly lit doorway ate away at the good sleep he so wanted, no, needed... Upon waking he was faced with an uneasy feeling that left him unusually uncomfortable getting into and sitting in good ol’ CAR 29 then... leftovers.
His early mornings had been too quiet recently. He began wondering the last couple of weekends whether the usual remnants of another wild Saturday night would ever begin to reappear as early Sunday morning fares again. It seemed like it wasn’t going to happen again when he finally, he got the leftovers he’d been wondering about... Just after five-thirty AM. A young fella and two, young ladies all dressed in black. All giggling and bubbling with the energy he once used to have when he was much younger and then faked having when he was on something while way too much older.
This giggling, bubbling gang had him make three separate stops to drop each of them off separately across the top of town. The last to be dropped off was the fella, all by his lonesome but still laughing at himself and his situation. :”She'll likely be happy that you finished it where it was meant to finish off last night, she’ll thank you for dropping her off.” trying to persuade him that she'd likely enjoy and appreciate him making a call that he suggested he make bit later this evening. You know, to check in on her.
Another call, even, more leftovers... an older still tipsy, not yet hung-over fella... He picked up this older man who was in visiting in town from out in the county; he was to be taken from a shady looking house up in the Heights to the pick-up truck he'd left downtown, somewhere near the Lone Star. He'd just finished up a long morning’s wrapping up of what some might call a successful, yet frustrating blind, OnLine date that ended in a plea for commitment he'd no intention of accepting. He was shaking his head as he described how he was heading off home to sober up by working with his son on some rooftop somewhere. Maybe to fend off a bitter disappointment of not yet becoming comfortably positioned between his old life, his ex-wife and this newly single life... nor with all the yet to come mornings spent wrapping up late night, late in life dates that these divorced guys, trying to fill a hole, will go out on over n over n over again and again.
Then yet another pickup n' delivery to a truck left somewhere in the evening. Another lost lonely pick-up left smartly behind, somewhere down on Princess, the main street in this little town. This guy looked the player. All dressed up for golfing, a scramble-brained fella admittedly regretting having made this obligation for such an early morning tee off. On our way downtown, Division, he spent most of the time reviewing his text messages to try to discover all the stupid things he'd texted to the other players late into last evening. A few hurried call leaving those oh too familiar next morning regretful recorded apologies, all the time hoping they’d more quickly have found the pick up just where he'd left it. They eventually did find it, left him right where he'd left off the night before... and then off to the fairway...
… a break from these leftovers when he accepted a phonecall from his good old and humbling buddy, Bob.
He spoke with Bob briefly, mentioning how ...near the end of yesterday, in his state of exhaustion while speaking with good friends he’d presented the suggestion, most likely more even to remind myself... a notion that accepting is not synonymous with ignoring or avoiding, forgetting nor denying or letting things fester in hiding on one's old dusty n' dirty back shelf. Accepting seems to me more of the facing, constantly reviewing how little control over what others around me may be thinking or doing... how little my problems and worries may mean to most others. Accepting is hard workings, grasping the understanding that it's just not about me, my impact n' inputs... it's a striving to get out from underneath one's truly deceiving and ego driven self.
So, he worked through this all throughout his new hump day, slept with uneasy visions of silhouettes in doorways bringing back vividly some old painful memories of calamities he’d had consistently over some time found so utterly useful. This morning as he rode along with and drove these folks he’d call Saturday's Leftovers to their now sun lit in varied different destinations... CAR 29 remained unusually uncomfortable until Bob's call when he was able to drop off that last and unsteadiest of fares... that no longer young fella uneasily reminding me of one's foolish self-pity... this older guy apparently from time to time still holding, reviewing, reflecting and facing all those now olden ill feelings towards my own gloriously useful and treasured... leftover feelings.
THANKS GUYS!
A torn bit of Kleenex stuck to his penis remind him that he had indeed masturbated last night...
...it really was all a blur. The conversation he had with Mike, his owner. He’d gotten dinged before, had felt the guilt of having backed into a Lexus before, and having left Mike with “fenders to bend straight, bills to pay”. There wasn’t a lot to say other than the simple admission he’d given the big fella... “I zoned out, missed a light...”
“We don’t need drivers who zone out here” Mike screamed, justifiably. Get out of here for the day. You are taking the next few days off... “Give me a call a week Tuesday, I’ll let you know if I need you back...”
Well that conversation didn’t do much in the way of helping mim manage his fears that, ALL THIS had just come to an end, had come quickly crashing down around him... fears... is all this, really just an accounting of what’s done, is done?
The only good thing about that first crash was it giving him time to get his mind onto other things, (before the next crash). Time to break free of the routine for a bit. Another round of thinking... thinking he’d be doing something else someday, because he was thinking of doing “things” while really doing nothing at all. How many times in his life had he been stuck in this routine? How many times had he felt, as long as he was getting up and going, he was on his way, it was all moving it forward? ya... I’m really on top of it, this time he’d lie to himself.
The best thing about this first crash, as it would turn out to be, what? How the crash might have just shaken him into doing something he’d never have considered he could do…
There was the one old gal he’d pick up from the hair salon, on Sydenham, almost every Thursday. She’d gush on and on at him and tells him how he remind her of her son; the son she raised all alone when her idiot husband left her and her two kids behind here in Kingston. He’d usually take her up to the Kingston Center and leave her at the Big-Box grocery store.
The old gals came in a few styles. There were a few quiet ones bu mostly they did love to talk and talk and talk on and on and, well he did love to listen. He had learned the joy of listening to little old ladies from his Great Aunt Margery. At family gatherings, most everyone else would eventually try to hide away from or do their best to ignore little old Aunt Marg. He’d happily slide on up and sit beside her at the dinner table or whenever else he’d get the chance and just listen to her talk and talk and talk on and on… he enjoyed her old stories, her wonderful babble.
There was another old lady who was always on the go. He had taken all over town, Saint Mary's by the Lake, the library, the mall, the doctors, dentist, beauty salon and on and on... she was always telling him the best routes to use to get to where she needed to go... and sometimes they were pretty good routes. “…you know?” …just the other day he was telling her how at his old office job, he used to grumble at clients who thought they knew a better way; clients who’d hire his firm then proceed to micromanage every last silly little detail of the job. He’d tell her how now, he loved it when his riders participated in their trip, took part, made suggestion, left right and otherwise. He had no problem with these riders telling him “Where to go", quite honestly, in the early days, he didn't always know exactly where to go anyhow.
Yet another old gal in this big old gang of sweet n’ lovely little blue haired ladies was Madge. Madge had one of those exaggerated painted on faces that seemed painted in a way to hide the twenty or thirty years she had tried desperately to convince herself hadn’t happened yet. Her apartment was located in a dreadfully awfully awkward part of Concession Street… she had a real tight bitch of a driveway to get in and out of; through what was always bad traffic to get through at the times she’d usually need to get picked up, at.
There was this one day he’d picked her up here on a wretchedly rain soaked day. He had to get out of the car to help her into his cab, fold and stow away her walker then hop back in all wet while he tried fruitlessly to perform a "back it out straight into a left turn" dipsy-doodly type of stunt driving manouver... he ended up skipping the left and rather backing to the right leaving him the need to do a way-too-quick New Yorker'esq U'ee way-too-close in front of a bunch of the sleepiest of ol' Kingston’s old daytime-drivers. It’s hard to describe how suicidal it all was.
His heart pounded a little more rapidly and rightfully so, and when he pulled it all off he felt that little extra pride when it all got done quite safely and more or less within the letter of the law... stunts. He maintained a spotless driving record, and this little old lady was quite impressed with his prowess. She seemed happy that it was him getting her where she had to go... It did get his dander up though and his racing heart made the conversation seem a little bolder that day.
Their first stop that day would be the Bank at the Plaza, just across the lot from the Big-Box grocery store. She wanted him to wait so that he could to no surprise, drive her over across the parking lot to shop for groceries. He reminded her that she’d be charged the wait time and reminded her not to take too long. Out in the rain again, he popped the trunk, grabbed and unfolded her walker, helped her up and outta the front seat; helped her up n' over the horribly too tall a curb next to the disabled parking spot, got her squared away with the walker and walked her over to the closest to the door. He got her all the way inside and went back to sit in his car and wait... and wait... and wait...
He was flicking the meter off and, on a bit, to lower the wait time charges… he was suddenly startled by this old guy tapping on his window. It caught him a bit by surprise as his mind had been wandering and his thoughts were all balled up with anxiety, wet and a little weary worried a bit about having to charge the old gal all the extra building up in wait time on the meter. He rolled down the window to see what the old bugger wanted; letting in more rain, he was ready to bark at the old fella but quietly asked curtly, "What do you want..." the old guy simply said... "I just wanted to tell you that I saw how nicely you treated that old lady. You wer very kind to have helped her into the bank... that’s all, I just wanted to tell you that someone had noticed"...
Eh, hem… All he wanted to reply back was... Just doing my job sir, after all, us taxicab drivers are Super Heroes... as the rain poured in the window he did reply, “…just doin' my job sir.” He smiled and thanked him as the old guy slipped away on his own way to quickly get himself out of the rain.
Yup, he did love his little sweet old blue haired ladies, his own Miss Daisy’s... and sure it wasn’t always the best of ways. Sure some days he’d get a little bit more than weary folding yet another walker, having to take two extra left turns or driving an extra block or two before having to unfold the walker back again and get the…
"please… you can keep the shiny quarter young man"
…tip on a $4.80 fare. You know, his father had just got himself one of those walkers... I guess maybe he so love these little old ladies was how they quite easily reminded him to do unto others as he’d have them do unto his father and his walker. And of course... He could use all the shiny nice quarters and friendly, easy little conversations he could get in the little nickel n' dime business he’d found himself in... toot, toot n' toots ya sweet little old ladies, you did make him smile.=
We take what we are given and enjoy the most of it... What a strangely surprising pleasure it was for him that day to watch the Jupiter atmospheric like swirls of the clouds, the various shades of grey overhead on this extremely slow day while waiting for his dispatch thing to go "ping" (it's actually more a tweet than ping)... and finally it did… go ping.
Tossing away another cheapo tax-free, Indian Reserve, "nine cent" smoke, and like the superhero he had become... seriously, why not a superhero? He did deliver people from one place to another simply by tilting his ankle and keeping his hulking steel mobile between the yellow and white lines. As all Superheroes, he filled “the need” exactly when the need needed fillin’. – He set out on yet another mission of... deliverance. This time his fare was a sweet lady who was off to fetch her own car from the garage... again, the glorious chit chat unfolded.
Somewhere in and amongst the usual pleasantries, the descriptions of their past and presents, they both noted how much they so enjoyed the fall season. They agreed that it was easily one of the four best seasons there was and how now, even with most of the leaves blown off the trees, the city was still so absolutely beautiful. He mentioned something about the swirling Jupiter like clouds… She shared how just a moments before she had been captured by the view of a gorgeous male cardinal sitting in a bush full of lingering red berries out on her front lawn. An image of a cardinals, alongside red berries against the Jupitorial swirling grey late fall clouds swerved into his driving mind. Weren't they just having a grand ol' time; him and this sweet lady just rolling along watching the rain begin to fall for the rest of the day on this pretty little city of theirs.
As they pulled into the Volvo dealership where she was having snow tires put on for the season, he noticed he could probably just fit his car under a bit of an overhang covering the entrance to the service center. He drove right up n' almost into the garage so that she could step out of the car, out of the rain. As she "cashed out" and said their goodbyes... leaving one last remark, "Keep an eye out for the Cardinals" as she shut the door ending yet another little limestone circle... Take what we're given, give a little more and enjoy the most of it... or, so it goes.
He was finding himself tracking certain stars, constellations, and planets each morning, noting their position relative to the moon. The moon had become a bit of a companion of late. He’d keep an eye on its position during the day, greeting it or saying goodbye as it sunk below or rose above the horizon. Other rituals include his intermittent rock tossing and the far more regular "humble stroll" around his little island, the block on which he lived and called his home.
His cab had come with its own set of rituals. Perhaps more a chant than a ritual, a regular incantation maybe; he recently had noticed himself muttering to himself, repeating "in the car NOW” … “stay in the car now"...be in the car." – Perhaps this was simply a way of reminding himself not to mentally drift too far away, to keep himself, his thinking from getting beyond the task of driving too too much. At the start of each shift in the morning he’d find himself either singing or humming an old favorite Talking Heads song, "Heaven". It had become a sort of theme song to the day’s drive.
There was no question that his cab had become a very large part of what he’d been calling this “re-uninvention of himself”. He had confided to more than one rider "...you are witnessing the end of a 25+ year digital marketing career". He’d add how much he was digging the gig and how it had allowed him to pitch the worst of his past in the trash bin. Driving cab had unchained him from the desktop.
This was probably a bit of an exaggeration. Things he’d say out loud to make himself feel better about doing a job he often felt might be beneath him. Saying it to customers was more an "ice breakers" than praise of his new life or more honestly, a confession. Mostly it was as much admission of defeat as it was the triumphant exultation of a drastic change for the better. Re-uninventing myself... sing and ancient favorite Talking Heads songs... the sites n' smells of moldering leaves and those certain algae that blooms along the shores in these part along the upper side n' lower end of the Great Lakes... his home again?
...and heaven?
Ages ago, if he were to have been asked, he’d have described heaven as the place one’s memories of friends, family and loved ones reside after passing. In many ways this still fit and was consistent with his current theology. One’s chances in heaven are proportionally related to the extent to which one leaves good memories in the minds of those left behind.
Although contrary to stated policy, conversations on religion and politics, did find their way into his cab from time to time but they were never the overriding theme of many cab-conversations. He liked focus on questions that drew opinions from his riders rather than foisting his on them. It was during his ‘downtime’ those endless moments between riders when he’d share these metaphysical questions with himself…
Listen... have you ever had the fantasy wherein you are sent back in time; you end up as yourself say 25 years (or more) ago, only now you’re that kid again but now knowing all that you know now?
There is a party, everyone is there.
Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.
Its hard to imagine that nothing at all
could be so exciting, and so much fun.
When this kiss is over it will start again.
It will not be any different, it will be exactly the same.
It's hard to imagine that nothing at all
could be so exciting, could be so much fun.
...this must be the place for him. At least for the time his cab had become a ride towards his own little bit of heaven…
The new-found fishing hole had been pretty good to him on this day. He’d gotten a good paying fare all the way across town which led to another couple of fares out in the west end and then another coming back, pretty much right to the new-found fishing hole. The next fare he fished out of the ‘hole was a pretty, young, Nigerian Canadian gal. She was off to take the train to Ottawa and write a licensing examine; the next step towards her becoming an immigration lawyer... the long and winding journey her and her parents had set her upon when she was just a little girl, upon their arrival here in Canada.
"So, ya wanna be a loi-er do ya?" he asked in his lousy n’ botched pretend New York City accent. He was generally pretty shitty at accents, but this hadn’t yet stopped him from embarrassing himself like this. Even his shitty attempts at a bad NYC accent broke the seal on his “ya, I lived in the city for 15 years conversation” A standard bit of chit chat that made more than a few trips go by easily and pleasantly.
She giggled a bit and said something that he registered as an indication she'd be willing to “open it up a little”, even take the conversation towards some potentially precarious political ping-ponging. – It was utterly dangerous discussing "politics" in the cab; especially on the relatively long trips to the train. It takes about 10 to 15 minutes to get to the station on a good day from most places downtown, he could easily piss off a rider in five of these if he really wanted to turn on the jets.
As he and his freshly minted lawyer friend got into it, he immediately realized she was a bit of a rookie. He figured he had better lay off a bit; pulled some of his punches. He noticed her “theme” was immigration and they started to some very good volleys over the issue. There was a bit of extra traffic, the ride became a bit extended, it was a solid 15 minute drive, maybe a bit more. They discussed the ins and out of white guilt, how being nice never helps; he found a hole and was able to chime in on how he was proud of both Canada’s and the Untied States’s immigration history and some such…
Towards the end of the trip, he was really just practicing a newly devised, softer touch at these types of conversations. He was trying to pull the conversation back from the precipice before they reached the station so he could send her off on a good note. He was working in more "non-absolute" points and softening the tone; trying to employ more of his politics of appeasement styled conversational tactics. As they made the last turn towards the train, he peppered the conversation with softening self-effacing jokes and tried giving up inches here and there through the pitter-patter, lets wrap it up final banter... by the end of the trip they were both laughing, maybe a little bit. Perhaps a little less uncomfortably than if he had put her on blast as he had done with other riders in the past.
As they pulled into the station, he gave her a little encouragement and told her..."...just do the best you can on the exam; you know what you know and the only way that’s coming out is to, ease up n’ relax…” He assured her she’d be coming home to give her big ol' Nigerian dad a huge hug. Somewhere in the conversation he’d found an opportunity to remind her just how much her parents had risked to get her to Canada and getting her on this path to becoming a lawyer.
She smiled as she left the car, leaving him a nice little $6 tip…
Exorcising the ghosts one of these ghastly political conversations could leave behind in his car would always be a bit of an undertaking. He’d often kick himself for saying this, or over-think it all and obsess over wishing he had said that. It was always best to treat the next rider with an extra dose of gentle kindness; go lightly on banter and keep the conversation squarely on their immediate adventure together; the adventure that's unfolding around the new rider’s immediate need to get someplace else, in his cab.
His next fare was a young Asian fella. He picked this kid up in the new housing development by the river on Newmarket. More than a few New Canadians had bought into these new houses that were squeezed between the railway tracks and where they would soon be building the third crossing, the new bridge across the river.
The kid was on his way to his parent’s restaurant. He asked to make a "quick stop" to pick a few things at the wholesale grocer over on Elliot along the way. A good fare with stops and wait time, a few extra nickels n' dimes... he thought.
As they pulled into the wholesale grocers, the Asian kid tossed him enough "dimes n' nickels" to pay off the fare that had already collected on the meter... an odd gesture as fares were usually settled-up at the end of the trip... even if there was an extra stop. "...just wait for me, I'll just be a second or two." were the kid’s only instructions.
The kid left his bag in back and hopped outta the car. He figured the kid was nice enough; he considered the fare paid for and decided not to charge any wait time; a little trick, a gesture he’d sometimes use on good fares to squeeze out a bit of a bigger tip, a bit of extra off-meter cash he wouldn’t have pay the garage. Wait time do add up lickity-quickly on the taxicab meters here in the Limestone City.
He waited... then waited, then waited some more… hmmmm... he started getting a bit annoyed and was thinking… maybe since the kid already paid up, he could restart the meter… charge him another $3.20 drop, this would cover a bit of the wait time he hadn’t started charging... He waited some more… and a little while more… hmmmmm... what's this little bastard up to? He began to worry, just a bit. He was getting a bad feeling but figured it was just a little legacy leftover from the last fare, the ghastly feelings left behind by his oops-a-daisy that was a bit too political of a conversation with the sweet little Nigerian Lady. He tried to relax and continue to exorcise the remaining demons; these bad ‘n angry feelings lingering in his car.
…didn’t work
He started to get a bit more... even angrier than he’d ever really got over a rider before. Anger wasn’t a feeling he really could afford to let into his car. Driving angry is not only a drag on the day but by all counts, a pretty dangerous endeavor in the business, this nickel n' dime business...
Hmm... he thought.... what was this fucking little shit head of an entitled little brat up to, he was in the restaurant business, a nickel n' dime business on its own. Was this dumb kid just trying, nickel n' dime him outta… what, a little stinking "wait time"? He would have just drove off if the kid hadn't left his bag in the back.
Hmm... he waited... he was almost ready to grab the damned bag and bring it into the wholesale grocers; hand it to this dumb Asian kid in a huff and storm off over an over-acted, full on theatric scene of total dramatics...
Hmm... he waited himself into a fit of almost rage (lord please let these damned ghastlies release me!)... He waited until he saw the kid wander out with a full shopping cart full of crap for his little nickel n' dime shithole of a restaurant down on Princess… he was fuming and he let him have it!
He schooled the little twit on business the whole drive down Division. "Messin' with another man, especially another man's business wasn't in any way shape or form a good way to do business yourself!" he rambled on…
"Nickel n' diming any suppliers is a false start that'll blow a whole fart load of pain your way if that's the way you think you'll make a go of it at your own stinking little nickel n' dime business"...
He scolded him and made it quite clear how this lecture wasn't over his own lost dollar here, the nickel and dime he’d lost out on kindly turning off the wait time while he went… grocery shopping. He made it clear to the stupid little kid that he'd squandered his time... It wasn't about any nickels or dimes, it was the opportunity costs, what he had lost by having to just sit there… waiting, with the meter not on, not being available to take other calls... Most of all he tried to impress upon this kid that this disrespect would come back to haunt him in his own business one day.
The kid may have got it, maybe a little a bit of it… probably, not.
As he helped the kid unload his big pile of garbage, all the wholesale groceries onto the curb by the door of his parent’s restaurant (he was still schoolin' the kid as they unloaded the trunk) ... the kid handed him a twenty and a five on a nine-buck fare and told me to keep the change... "does that cover it?"... "No, not really…", the kid obviously hadn’t caught on that it wasn’t the money at all; he mumbled a quick thank you and was off... cashed out.
He was hoping a little of it had sunk in and wishin', thinking maybe he would have handled it a bit differently if it weren't for the leftover ghastlies from the ride with the pretty young Nigerian future lawyering lady.
A pause by the side of the road; he jumped out for a quick smoke and a sigh. A definite de-unengineering of the last two drives and finally a chance to exorcise... fucking nickle n' diming... He thought, maybe this little incident was why he was no longer in business; he half thought some more and then thought better... nope. He still felt good for never having run any of his businesses that way... nickel and diming… but...
He wasn’t ever gonna tell a single one of these folks, especially the other fellow cab drivers where exactly his new-found n' favorite fishing hole was... after all, this old hole? Well, that's just none of your business.
This day… just like the other days, just another regular old n' routine sort of a day. It started a little differently than most days, maybe. After checking his fluids, he turned the key and logged on to find himself at number 1 in Zone 3… Rather than racing down to the boatyard… He was up for an early morning's pitch dark drive through the Height...
After a spin down Compton at 5:42, a pickup at 766 John Counter on route to the very end of Rigney... a way up by the railway…
"...oh, thankfully I'll be laid off soon if they don't give me a plough.” said the nice young fella with the biggest lunch box I've ever seen. The guy was in the dirtiest work clothes… then off to pickup a construction worker, a former crane rigger at Kimco and …down from the Heights and on with the day.
In towards the heart of the City of Kingston. Down Division today, again simply to do it all slightly a bit differently... He headed for Zone 4, what they called the Wartime. He sat there for few more minutes than he would have liked to…
..read his readings, chanting a few chants, and after casting a few incantations he’d had had just about enough, when...
…it started raining…then it stopped, then it wouldn’t stop… then harder, softer, harder and all through this… a regular old n' routine of a day.
Around 6:33am he was at four hundred and something Bagot, off to Kingston General Hospital [KGH]... at 6:57am he drove back over to 135 Ontario Street then on up to the Rail Station... it’s 7:21am and he’s off up Princess, way up to the Best Western just a bit west of Sir John A, to Starbucks at Wellington... then at 7:48am a hop over to... a pickup at Four Points Hotel going all the way over to Place de Armes behind the K-Rock (thank goodness that was Cancelled).
This average old n' routine day really got rolling with a nurse on Bagot… not one of the many nurses he’d been getting to know on those way too early mornings they hurriedly have to jump into his car, late for their early shifts… He did love driving the nurses and could usually get 'em giggling… those mornings they had slept in... again!
He zipped back into Zone 1 to grab an older woman, a retired nurse? A professor? Then down on Ontario, another run up to the station…
She’d be meeting friend along her way to Toronto, they were off to visit the Aga Kahn, a new Islam Museum in Toronto with a great collection of Muslim Art... He’d have to go see this place, he thought to himself, and thanked older perhaps retired woman.
Then down from the station to the Best Western on Princess to fetch a corrections officer in for a prison conference at Four Points.
At 7:51am a cancellation… a pick up at the Delta to Transformix Robotics a way out on Gardiner... Then at 8:20am a "back flip" to Bittersweet Place then turning back, all the way down Princess to the Tim's on Macdonell… afterwards at 8:45am, over to Mack Street and again off to the Rail Station.
When Four Points was a bust, dispatch threw him a bone and had him take a couple of Italians, serious businessmen a way out to the west end to meet with some robot makers who were making them angry... Apparently the robots they had contracted Transformix to assemble to make the thing that makes mist squirt from their perfume bottle was a bit behind schedule. His only question, weren't there enough Italian Robot factories? What had them looking for someone to assemble these misty thingies here in Kingston rather than back in Italy? A business-like smile and a friendly nod... then he was off to Bittersweet Place… We might never know how happy he was to find out that his new home, The City of Kingston had a street named "Bittersweet Place".
Another construction worker, this one quite careless with no lunch box; just a kid who had lost his license in bittersweet fashion...
"that'll teach you" he told him.
He agreed and promised he'd learned his lesson and wouldn't do, you know, that, ever again. He led me to believe he knew what it’d cost him... almost...
Then off to Mack for another in a long line of professors …in the backseat of the cab. This professor worked in the drama department, the Theatre Arts Department. HE was the author of a play called Brebeuf's Ghost. The professor seemed rather nonplussed when he told him he’d come here to work for a Theatre Director and that he'd seen his students perform Galileo's Daughter at the University Theatre towards the end of last year... He had a touchy time with these professors... they had an attitude, that was just about as uppity an attitude of my own.
Just… a little bit later, 9:42am, another hotel stop along Princess. This time the Peach Tree… off down to the hospital, again… At 10:09am it was over to Shopper’s Drug Mart’s back door on Bagot over to the Queen’s campus again, Mac Cory Hall...
…then way back over across town at 10:23am to Sydenham past Bay, almost too close for comfort and down to the Lone Star...
Yet another stop along the lakeshore 10:40am, down Ontario to Shoppers Drug Mart’s… back door… again
"How's my cologne smell?... I mean, is it overpowering? ...it’s the cheapest I could find at the Dollarama last night" said the huge n' happy n’ jovially round n’ puffy man from Grand Prairie Alberta. A fuel truck driver who seemed happy that so far, he didn't have any stories of his own truck exploding... one did catch fire though.
He had a belly laughing posture but with anxiety in his eyes... He was off to visit his ex-wife, on her last days in the palliative care hospital...
"She’s the mother of your children?" he asked the man from Alberta quite quietly…
He described his boys as… the oldest, the smart one is not doing too well, the one in the middle caught in a revolving detox puzzle. The youngest one, the dumb one, is doing the best of ‘em all…
Oh, and the cologne? He pulled out the extra Pine Tree car freshener he had in the glovebox; and jokingly told old jovial fella to rub it all over his neck, face and chin… these Pine Tree car fresheners are likely much cheaper than… the smelly cologne he'd found last night at the dollar store all on his own.
The morning’s off n on. Hard and soft rain had became a monsoon as he drove an Indonesian student with heavy and very British accent to class.
He picked up a young couple and drove 'em on back to Shopper’s… back door.
“I think I may have missed the opportunity to introduce you to the Lone Star Bartender”, no worries there'll be other pretty routine n' regulars, on any other old day… the next one, it’s likely is already happening now.
Back downtown at 10:55am for another try at the Four Points this time success and off to, the Rail Station... again… then all the way back for an 11:35 pick up at the bank branch on Bagot to the Bus Station...
Up in the Heights again at 11:55am and it’s off to the upper corner of the City of Kingston. 44 Virginia to the Credit Union at the decrepid old Kings Lake Plaza... and back... 12:20 re-pick-up at Kings Lake Plaza to 44 Virginia... again.
You may have read it in the papers already, in the next few days, Canada’s wee little Army will be putting boots on the ground in Iraq... or so I was told by a Lt Colonel who’d been attending a Military Futures, Readiness Conference...
Frighteningly, like all the brass he’d had in his backseat, this fella was younger than he’d ever been. Three tours in Bosnia two in Afghanistan, the Colonel couldn't wait to get back on his battlefield to do battle again. His family? They understood him... And then, as was his custom, he thanked the Colonel for his service and asked him as he stepped out of the car to “…do keep an eye on our boys... after all, you’re the Lt Colonel”. The officer was a gentleman and gave him a nice tip which left him wondering... was that nothing but tip mongering ploy?
The fella I picked up at the bank at the corner of Brock and Bagot had come to town to sort out his aging parents affairs and... was staying in Kingston until “…it was finished”.
The guy was an RMT with a laser surgery practice and a new member at the Kingston Yacht Club. He took the chance to asked him if he'd consider crewing for him on race nights? "Will I see you at next week's wine tasting?" ...not likely, but he was looking forward to seeing this David fella, maybe a new friend again.
Oh dear another Bus Station drop off, then back in the Heights… this time to drive ol' Jack to the Plaza then back. A sweet old man who reminded him of some old TV actor couldn’t quite put his finger on...
Jack had read the name on his taxi drivers badge and called him by name many times during the trip down to the Plaza and back. “Thank you, I look forward to seeing you again”.
It was 12:57, back to the Shopper’s back door on Bagot n’ over to Goodes Hall. Then up for a coffee and a pee and a pick up at 13:31 at the Maple Family Pharmacy...
…over to Village Drive up and tucked over by the river... then at 13:59 a No Frills grocery call that took him to Patrick and Raglan... near his home.
These routine days could get kind of rugged, grueling, even tiring at times… He had learned to smile through it and with a happy hello... "are you partially blind? …I mean, do you need some assistance?” he asked the fella who walked gingerly from the pharmacy
The fella had no end of trouble squeezing himself ever so awkwardly into the car. "...nope, just a rare form of spinal arthritis"... that's all.
Then a couple that spoke mostly with themselves except when he told them they were neighbors of his, that he lived just around the block that he live on…
He'd done two stints in therapy and is applying to become a councilor...
…seeing how he's been through it… he helped with their groceries... "looking forward to seeing you around"... and all.
2:15 To the hair dresser on Sydenham to the Cataraqui Centre ...
…a short wait in the rain
2:45 at the Cataraqui Centre to Warburton... and then 3:01, MacKay Street to the Metro Grocery at the Gardiner Town Centre... down to another end of Kingston off Day's Road
3:22 Chelsea Street to The Keg... downtown again.
…a happy little n' goofily bitchy little girl taps on my window and asks that I drive her to her parents where she's living after a split with her boyfriend and losing her job... As we pulled into her driveway, he had noted the tree swing hanging in a tree in the front yard of the house she felt too old to live in and asked her... “is that yours?"
"...is that accent Greek or Russian?" he asked the wizened old lady. The question perked her right out of her grumpy old demeanor, he'd given her some leeway as she was all soaking wet.
"Ukrainian" she corrected...
…then they proceeded to sort out which of her countrymen she liked and which others don't like the Russians. She was neither here nor there on the Russians but don't bother her with the Poles. As he unfolded her walker and helped up n' out of the car, she smiled and asked… "...I do live quite close". Sadly, he said, he had to go...
Eating last night’s leftover pizza …the restaurant manager he'd driven with downtown a few weeks ago. He said very little, make me feel a little un-comfy but leaves a nice tip and a smile as he gets out and gets off to work.
Finally, it’s almost over… 3:52 with pick up at Staples on Queen to Concession and then over to Kingscourt... then he’d finish the day 3:56 just up from his home at Raglan to Diana’s Fish restaurant... er, Market.
Just another… done already? ...rough n' tumble and regular old routine sort of a day... with no real surprises, just extremely nice people, one after the other that he picked up, spoke with and learned a little something of as they went along on their way...
Twenty or more little stories. He didn’t have to make any of this stuff up… just listen and prod and asked one or two questions more than the last fella who didn't really show much of an interest… and… how was your day going? How was it?
Truly, honestly, seriously even, he needed to know this...
He’d not heard anything like it before.
[RESTART THE CRASH STORY HERE]
AND WITH A CRACK, HE BROKE THROUGH THE ICE
He'd taken a humanities professor part way home to Sweden and a marketing executive partway to Atlanta… He once took three suspiciously fit and very large military fellas from their headquarters to… er… maybe somewhere in the Middle East… maybe… for a while. One day he picked up a very nice woman early one morning at the ferry docks and drove her part way to China; well actually part way to Hong Kong. This morning had him picking up a young lady at the Frontenac Club on King. She was on her way… “I’m headed back to New York City…”
“Oh… really... ?”
He’d had a few fares who once lived in The City; the exec off to Atlanta, one of the nurses had for a time been an actress and lived down in the East Village. He had driven plenty of folks who had visited there, many who’d easily been there plenty of times and He always enjoyed comparing our notes… Something just struck him about this nice young woman on her way home this morning; a new mother… she jumped into the car and off they headed for New York City.
Her place was on Bergen just down from Smith Street, a mere five blocks from The Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary, an old converted school house on Cheever’s, the first place he had called home in Brooklyn.
“Right, you get on the F Train at the front...”; as they talked, his smiles grew wide as he glanced glanced over his shoulder, “…looks like we were once good neighbors”. He told her about all the places he had lived, she told him some stories, they chatted at that city pace, that rapid banter that suddenly seemed vaguely familiar. Of course, they mentioned that day and the towers but didn’t linger; that day’s quickly becoming simply a knowing nod between folks who’d both been there. He had a whole list of things to go over with her, things like the playgrounds she’d soon be using… He couldn’t stop smiling throughout their whole conversation..
It had happened a few times upon arriving at the Railway station... while grabbing her bag from the trunk of his car… there was a subtle pause in their chatter, a mutual urge to give each other a hug, like a brother and sister would as they said their goodbyes. He blew her a kiss and as she headed off home, back to, The city…
The rest of the morning; twinges of homesickness for a home he missed completely and quite likely would never even ever see ever again. Maybe he was even just a bit lonely, certainly missing his son, but then, incredibly happy to know that someone he’d just met would be taking a smidgen of a nice moment back… home to his city, his big ol' New York City… a really the nice place... to get part way back home to this morning.
At a particularly busy point on this busy morning, he got a rare call to pickup all the way in the heights while he was downtown, a bit of a challenge. He rose to it, racing up Bay to Bagot, speeding up Bagot while barely slowing at the single stop sign, the “Russel Twist”, left n' right onto Montreal then playing the angle on Railway over to Division... a bit of “freewheeling” and rule breaking was doable in the early hours of the day, it was still a small town… If it weren't for a Wonder Bread Truck; actually getting stuck behind a truck was fortunate as he rode that, at speed while passing in front of the Police Station. He caught a fortunate green at John Counter, another at the No Frills intersection, swung right onto Benson and was at the Day's Inn door in, by no stretch of the imagination... four minutes... flat... out to the Inn. – Small things can make one feel good about themselves in an easy job like driving cab.
He picked up a Cadet, a first year, in uniform, a tradition this kid seemed to respect as he seemed to be a pretty respectful kid. One would hope the RMC kids would be respectful seeing how they are our Nation’s future Military Brass, our future leaders. Young men who at some point a ways off in the future will be called upon to…
There are three types of student in Kingston. The Community College kids are on a mission. They want to get into school, complete their programs, get a placement or two, graduate and get a job, it’s a straight line for them, learn a trade and GO! The University students are all over the place. Sure the future doctors, lawyers and engineers seem to have their shit together (keyword, seem), but most of the undergrads seem to be floating around on their parents credit cards looking for inspiration. The RMC Cadets are of the same ilk as the Queen’s student but have their heads bolted on straight. They’re getting a free education in exchange for service and the Royal Military College is simply the first step in a career that’s basically already begun. That said, they are still just a bunch of dumb kids.
...for all intents and purposes the kid he’d just picked up was AWOL, out past curfew. He had a pretty good “civilian” excuse seeing how he'd invited his gal down from Quebec for the Ball. The kid hadn't seen her for months. On the somewhat tense ride to the college he assured him that there had likely been more than a million military men before him who'd risked the wrath of their superior officers in order to spend the night in a far superior situation; the kid certainly sounded much in love with a first year, his young lady and spoke of her with as much respect as he was showing the uniform. He dropped him off with a suggestion that, rather than sneaking back into his barracks, he should confront his superior as soon as possible that morning with an explanation of his situation and admit that he had broken curfew. The kid told him that’s what he had intended to do all along...
"...good, now GET IN there." he said with a smile.
The very next call was right there on campus and had him plucking a young lady in a gown with Queen's University Engineering Jacket draped over her shoulders, straight out of the clutches of yet another young military man, most likely out of uniform, in the adjacent dorm. She'd had a grand time at the Ball after all... The kids seem to call this "the Sunday morning walk of shame". He had decided he’d call it "the walk of infinite n' pleasant possibilities." – The way he saw it, it was another beautifully gorgeous Sunday morning. The sun's shining and the young lady along for this ride in his cab was all smiles…quiet and happy, all the way back into the city... Why cheapen a moment, he thought, she was a good uniformed young man... she was smiling… rather than something shameful she may just have taken the first few steps on the best days of her life.
...quite a bit earlier that morning, mixed in with all the ruckus of these kids having a Ball, He had pick up an old fella at Emergency Ward at the Hospital. A frail old fella who looked lost and bewildered as I drove him home in the dark to his lovely old home over on William. Are you alright? He was doing OK; he'd been with his wife all night... she wasn’t doing so well. By his general demeaner and exhausted appearance, you could tell the old guy probably wouldn’t be bringing her home, again… he stayed by his driveway for a few extra minutes before...
He picked up a couple more couples who looked ready to spend a nice next day together then another guy and a gal who had called two cabs to go their separate ways... A girl in a hurry to get from the Holiday Inn to what I figured was her own place up on Johnson.
She was adamant about being in this hurry... he hit every green light right on the button and asked her "...was that fast enough for you?" as she stepped out of the car with a smile and said... that it was OK.
...a bit later that day I got a call, a pickup on William, the old man got in and asked, "...have I been in your cab once before?"
He told the old guy, a sweet old former professor that he’d drove him home from the Emergency Ward earlier that morning. The old guy looked a little more rested, but still rather bewildered; his wife had had a few falls over the last week and this time wasn't able to get up. He asked him if he had been able to get a little sleep. The fella rambled on a bit about this, that, and anything but how his wife might now be doing.
The old guy was still a bit tired, a bit frail so he needed a bit of extra help to get out of the car. The old guy walked very slowly around the and he held to Emergency Door open, literally shooing him inside with "get in there ol' fella!" as if to lighten his moment waving gesture to emphasis... KEEP it MOVING.
It was a happily busy little morning, and he did keep it moving, at points it was a hoppin’ even racing indeed... what a ball... with all this balling after all.
“I’m the only one in my family who's never been in an ambulance.” …
Yup… all Hunter’s countless brothers and sisters had been hurt, either had accidents or done one dumb thing or another that had ‘em whisked off to the emergency room at the hospital. One of his brothers gave Hunter no end of mischievous pleasure when he slipped and cut his butt on the broken soap holder thingy in the shower. His mother would later corrected Hunter’s story by pointing out that the brother who had cut his butt was able to be fixed up right in the ambulance, outside their apartment on Compton, he never had to go to the hospital… splitting but hairs as far as Hunter and I were concerned. After all his original assertion was, they’d all been in an ambulance, not to the hospital.
Boys n' their moms… The mom crazily fretting their choosing to waste a bit of the budget on cab fare in order to make the hectic bits n’ pieces of their day fit together, the boys… cool, I get to spend an afternoon in a cab!
“What’s your name?” “I bet you’re… what 8, 9, 10?”
He knew enough about boys to know you should always guess a higher. What little boy doesn’t want the old taxi driver to think he’s older than he really is… ? …it’s a odd guess with boys, a bit tougher as there’s really little difference between a 6, 7, 8, 9 or 10 year old little video gaming addicted Minecrafters. All boys can be a funny n’ jumpy little bunch when in the back of his car. He knew the questions boys wanted to be asked, and he knew the questions that would draw out the answers that would drive their moms crazy… easy enough, the same questions. Hunter loved it when I asked these questions; he enjoyed driving his hectic mom crazy.
Earlier that morning he had picked up Dawson on Stephen. Dawson had missed his school bus… well, we can be be more specific insomuch as his mother missed getting him to it and on it. She lifted her son out of his chair and into the back seat of the car, giving him that, “a little help would be nice please” look. Before she had to actually say anything, which might have been rude, he jumped out, opened the trunk and proceeded to fiddle with the chair; pretending to know what he was doing.
“The seat part comes off like normal …but the back is different.”
As she gave him very specific and thorough instructions on how to disassemble the contraption so that it could be folded and stowed in the trunk, it dawned on him that the scope of these instructions suggested she wouldn’t be coming along for the ride and that he and Dawson would be off to school together on their own-some… awesome.
"...would you like me to give you a call when I get him to the school?"
As they started off, Dawson was mumbling loudly about some chocolate mouse and Snoopy flying a plane, or something… oh…
“…did you see the Santa Parade on Saturday?” he asked.
Ya! “They had… this and this and that and that and that and…”
Bumpity bumpily…
“Why do you keep asking me where I live?”
“No you asked ME where I lived” … oh (?)…
“I like when you say bumpity bumpily”
Dawson decided to say bumpity bumpily again and again, he kind of sang it over n' over again as they hit every pothole, bump, rut n' ridge in the road he could find on the way off to Dawson's school… up in the Heights. He and Dawson were having such a wonderful little wee of a time he made a wrong turn. As he turned around, correcting the mistake he clicked the meter off early…
He got out, unpacked Dawson’s chair from the trunk and re-assembling it just as his young mother had shown him. It really wasn’t that difficult as the bits and pieces re-assembled in a pretty logical fashion. He lifted Dawson out of the backseat and carried him to the chair. What a wonderful feeling to have a little boy in my arms again… After putting his little feet n’ the foot holder thingies and buckling up his seat belt, he noticed there wasn’t another sole in sight at the school to hand awesome Dawson off to… he noticed another little boy running in the direction of the main door to the school, head down; he figured this other kid was a bit late. As they all got nearer to the doors. “Can I bring him in this way” he asked the kid.
sure… “Do you know Dawson?”
Ya… he’d seen seen him around… We went into the school, I grabbed the taxi chit from the secretary as some busy young teacher whisked little Dawson away before giving me one final chance to say… bumpity, bumpily… or goodbye.
Later that day, he got a call to take Kingston’s new, young maestro, to the railway station. The Maestro was flustered, busy and needed to add a stop for, of all things an extra clothes hanger that had almost ruined his day… The trip started mad hurriedly but as they settled into the main dash to the station, the extra distance they added to go get the hanger had given them some extra time to review each and every minute ins and out attribute of The Isobel, Kingston’s relatively new music hall. This line of conversation tuned Evan down a notch and like everyone else, given the chance to tell their story pushed him back from the edge of anxiety in thinking he might miss his train; he wouldn’t want to be stuck in Kingston after all; after all it was just the little town that had given him the opportunity to be a very young, maestro.
They went over the various ins and outs of what it’s like to be a symphony conductor in a littler place like Kingston …”sorry for the bumpily, bumpities” he said, or rather sang to the wee-city’s newest boy-maestro; he sang out bumpily, bumpities almost without thinking as they bounced over one of the more rugged level rail crossings…
Another pleasant cab ride… calming an anxious rider with his oh so superior superhero like driving abilities and his johnny-on-the-spot accurate choices in chitter-chatter... Being a bit later in a good day this was likely the 20th or so trip of almost 30 that day… bumpily bumpity… he’d be thinking… if this is all he’d get… all these boys, these beautiful little boys today… if this is all he’d get… then he’d take it... bumpily bumpity, he’d take all he could get., beautifully.
Early on inm this month’s check-day, he got “the call”, what would turn out to be a typical check-day call up to Montreal Street. Picking up at these ram-shackled row of houses near where they’d eventually be building the new bridge, across from the Bingo Parlor; off to the Government offices across from the Kingston Shopping Centre “with/STOPS”…
As he pulled to a stopped on the potholed n’ pitted unpaved driveway in front of the worst house of the lot, an extremely twitchy n’ fidgety undefinably mid-aged gal dashes from the doorway and lunged into the backseat of his cab “...wait for my friends, there’s more of us.” As a couple of dirty n’scraggly and as equally twitchy fellas get in, one in front the other in back with his gal, one of them tells me we’re off to the Disabilities Offices; asking if we’re able to make a stop afterwards at the check cashing place… I guess so… he hit that gas and though, oh well… here we go.
Driving around with three fidgety n’ twitchy crystal-meth heads can be a challenge if you want to make it one. The conversation is erratic, overlapping and idiotic. He found it best just to be mindful, a bit careful not to say anything that might confuse or provoke ‘em. He cracked a few inside jokes, mosty pitter-patter designed to let ‘em know, he’d “been there” or at least near the same neighborhood they now were residing in, in their retarded addictions… They were a bit more docile than other meth-heads he had had in his cab. He found himself slowly descend into a more playful mood, deciding it’d be best just to play along with them. It was almost as if he’d joined them on this mission somehow and that they were all in this together. Just four pals, three of ‘em twitchy, off to get what they were after. It helped that they didn’t smell so bad.
Getting them out of the car at the government office in some organized fashion was a bit of a chore. He had to remind them that they’d likely all need to pick up their checks in person, so they’d all have to go. He wasn’t too worried and felt certain they’d all come back to continue their ride… it was still all a challenge. He offered to pause the wait time a few times, to save ‘em a few dimes. He was happy to see ‘em leave behind a worn out old bag and a dirty n’ ripped up jacket; their valuable belongings… they finally all got out and into the offices then after a too long and bit worrisome wait, they were back into the car, checks in hand, with a silent hooray for one and all!
After a mostly hairbrained and scrambled discussion, they decided that indeed, he was to take ‘em to the check cashing place; a plan that had already been hatched before they had even called a cab. Even so, all thing considered he was quite proud of his new found n’ fleeting drug addicted pals having hatched what might have appeared to be such a simple plan… step one, get check; step two get checks cashed; step three… here we go.
On their drive to the Money Mart on Division between Queen and Princess, he peppered his sporadic involvement in their conversation with stories of his own glory-days… they continued along, planning in fragments. A now more excitedly babbling incoherence had taken over, the overall mood in the cab was definitely improving… they were soon all going to have cash money!
The two guys got out at the Money Mart giving him and the undefinably aged gal the opportunity for a nice little chat. She inquired over some of the snippets of his own druggin’ days he’d mentioned on the drive over to the Money Mart. He got a chuckle telling her the story of how he’d taken a dump in a garbage can out front of an apartment building one dark n dreary night in Brooklyn “waiting for my man”. He described the friends he’d made here in Kingston, some of these folks much in the same condition as her and her pals; “friends” he’d take to the methadone clinics here in town. He noticed she found the latter topic quite relaxing.
When the fellas returned the conversation turned to “...where next?”
The guys were a bit hushed, cash in hand, a bit more withdrawn, protective maybe at first until the young lady assured them that he was indeed “…one of them"
They eventually found her story believable perhaps because he had it in “his eyes” after all… and then, yet another challenging round of crazed conversation in scrambled pursuit of some decision making... It was finally decided that, despite possible earlier agreements, wiser decisions they’d made long before jumping in the cab; they wanted him to take them to… you know, the guy. So it was off to the location… For a split-moment, he almost had a fleeting notion of parking his cab and joining them for their afternoon’s endeavors… just a moment.
Reality though, he did have a thought... “ what was my role in all of this?” Honestly, as they sat at the curb just a few doors down from the location, like so many locations he had “waited down from before...” He sat thinking for a moment, having a smoke... he had waited and waited like this, in front of various apartments many a long ago. Loads of lost memory swirling ‘round inside his now spinning head... old thoughts, along with the thought… What is my role in this? …a role he felt particularly troubled with was the role some Kingston Police might assign him as they all stood there, parked at the curb breathlessly waiting for that older, twitchiest of scraggly fellas to come back with… you know, NO, I don’t know, officer? Having had this thought, he decided, he should really look it up one day. The older dirty guy finally did get back to the cab, hands in pockets... They got our crazy ol’ show back on the road.
They were now nearly in view of it all being in “full swing” very soon. he watched as this scraggly bunch transformed from scatterbrained and twitchy, undefinably aged bent over n almost dying drug addicts into a gang of almost too-happy gleeful pre-teenagers… they had step One: got their checks; step two cashed their checks; step three, spent their checks… woohoo! But first, another scramble to decide which convenience store would be best to make a stop for chips n’ pop n’ other stuff, various bits of paraphernalia he assumed, “...this one has that but doesn’t sell lotto tickets, that one has lotto but doesn’t sell that, we need this and that… and lotto.”
He was exhausted with these fools by the time they all got back to the ramshackled-shack up on Montreal Street. They’d run up a forty-sum odd dollar fare, paid it without a whimper and gave him a whole five-dollar tip from their quickly dwindling pile of dough the government had just handed them. As he pulled his car out of their driveway, as quick as he could, he rolled down all the windows, not to let any smell out… but rather, just to let air in. He pulled into the nearest parking lot, out of their line of sight, as if they'd even bother looking. He got out and lit a smoke as quick as he could. What a ride, that ride. It had its moments of course, at times it was fun while it lasted and they got up to some crazy old conversations but in the end about absolutely nothing at all. – In the definitely very end of it though… he was truly glad… that all that was over with... derogatorily... check-day or not.
...the company he drove for used a cleverly devised automated GPS driven dispatch system, similar to UBER but not as slick and mostly driven by live operators at the central office. The driver’s whereabouts, zone, location etc and status were kept in the system; when a request for a ride came in, it would be routed to the first available car in the zone in which the pick-up was to be made. If the zone was empty, the system finds the closest car in the adjacent zone. There was a little gaming some drivers could pull off, but for the most part, getting the next ride was simply a matter of where n’ when you are, who’s the closest… luck, fate… providence... who really knows?
The city was carved up into 20 some odd zones. These zones originate downtown in Zone 1 and stretched outwards into the thinner, more spread-out parts of the City; stretching as Kingston does, straight out and on into the wilderness. The single digit zones more or less cover the city proper; the “teen” zones covered the west end while the zones in the 20s cover the east side of the city, the Armed Forces Base, and mostly more freshly minted subdivisions on the East side of the Cataraqui River. The city of Kingston’s post Harris’ amalgamated taxicab service stretched pretty much from Nappanee to Gananoque and a way on up to Battersea to the North.
These zones worked more or less as any city’s traditional “taxi stand” might work. Taxi stands are, you know, those long lines of empty cabs you used to see idling outside of the landmarks, grocery stores, bus and railways stations in your city. When a taxi drives into one of Kingston's 20+ or so odd zone, they are virtually “lined up”, behind the other cabs already in that zone and receive calls for pick-ups in order of arrival in the virtual line. Zones “churn” at different rates at different times on different days. He knew there’s a rhythm to this city. He could already begin to feel it after a few days driving hack, but it did take a while for the rhythm to be less erratic, fickle. Often it seemed to depend on nothing more than the color strength and intensity of each morning’s sunrise…
Each zone has a mix of businesses the odd attraction or special location and a mix of residences. Kingston’s General Hospital and the University were the key features of Zone 6. Zone 13 was all about the malls and drive by shopping strips. There was another smaller mall, the plaza and the central transit bus hub in Zone 8. Like any given city, Kingston’s neighborhoods were indeed demographically divided but mixed up all over each zone. There are enclaves of this over there and a few ramshackle blocks of that over there in each of the zones. That said, Zone 3 was definately chock full folks with very little dough and a lot of low income housing while downtown, Zone 1 was home to all the old n’ finery, the “Earl Street Mansions” and lake shore condos. Zone 6 was a little more well to do, but all Zones 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 had various shades of what was left of the middle classes. Varying states of disrepair, despair and get me outta here’s. Zone 2? It’s full of zombies, weirdos and well-meaning young couples… His own house? It was exactly on the edge of Zones 1 and 2. Like I said, it’s a pretty mixed up little and relatively older City.
There was only a little more than an itty bitty skill to “working the zones”. Other than developing the aforementioned inherent feel for the city’s rhythm, it’s ebbs n’ flows, vibrations and minute by minute undulations. Auguring your expectations and aligning ‘em with the sunrise you saw from the river’s shore early in the morning could be a challenge, but a skill… ? …that could be learned? Or a feeling, a twinge n’ twingled sense of what’s going on around you… He supposed for a moment that even without much sense at all he seem to be doing OK. He was pulling good enough numbers to keep his car’s owner happy. At least, he looked happy… well, he hadn’t yelled at him yet. He’d heard a few drivers say, he might one day. Skill, sense, or twinge n’ twingles… The only real choices he had to make each day was… “…should he stay or should I go now?” say if he dropped a fare off at the train station in Zone 11. AND, if he idi decide to “…go now”, the only decision next… go where?
A drop off at the train station... “go where?” The station drop off leaves you in Zone 11, a pretty dead zone with nary a zombie to be seen most of the day on any given day really. When bolting from the train station you’re quickly thrown into Zone 8… an OK zone most of the time, at least during that day. His gut rule was: “back to the middle”, in other words when in doubt always head back downtown to Zone 1. Even if you arrive as the 5th, 6th, or 7th cab, you won’t wait too too long to be fairly assigned a fare… but… his gut sometimes told him it’s a quicker drive to Zone 3’s lower income neighborhoods, you know all those good people with no cars…
Who really knows what lead him to the zone he was supposed to be in next to pick up the next best conversation he’d have that day? There are a few things he had to reminded himself each time he found himself sitting and waiting in a zone that didn’t seem to be churning… First, don’t second guess your earlier self too much. That fella you were just a few short seconds ago felt something… wait for it. You never know and certainly there’s no joy chasing the phantom churnings from zone to zone… Second, you didn’t just miss the call or the conversation of the century in that other zone, the one you should have maybe gone to, nope that call n’ conversation is waiting for you… just on up ahead. Thirdly and most importantly, you get the fares you’re going to get, where n’ when you get them… and remember, always remember… “you’re not doing the driving…” You may appear to be driving, steering, making things go, but in all likelihood, in the end, you’re really just along for the ride.
He hit a trifecta one morning, or was he just along for the ride? He would call this a natural trifecta no less… or maybe hat trick. The day started with no diddling nor dawdling, he hopped in his cab and drove straight to the boatyard. Gazing at the few stars able to shine through an all too cloudy, pitched black and almost blue end of the night’s sky; he got his first call, across the river, Zone 22…Two reasons he liked to camp at the boatyard, to gaze at the stars and to catch those long Zone 22 calls.
It was indeed a long call, picking up on the Armed Forces Base and off to the airport; as clear across town as it gets, in this town. He found waiting at the barracks, a nice fella, a bit early morning wobbly, a helicopter pilot. He would be driving this pilot part way to Edmonton, the guy’s home, today. A rambling conversation, quick stop at the Tim’s for a breakfast sandwich, his vitamin G enriched cure for his hangover and a valiant attempt not to talk politics… for some reason. The nice conversation ended in a strong handshake and a thank you for your service. On leaving the airport he followed his gut rules and headed… “back to the middle” … back downtown to Zone 1.
Happily, he failed to make it all the way back into Zone 1 before the next call. On his way through Zone6, he got a call to pick up on Clergy, on Queen’s campus then off to the railway station… A sweet young lady, student, an Art History major on her way to help her boyfriend focus, study for exams in some other college town. He and the sweet young student lady had lovely conversation.
“ were the Group of Seven the first Canadians to paint Canada a Canadian would?
…should a contemporary Canadian artist identify themselves, say in their bio, as Canadian Artist? … maybe only if they’re painting Canada as only a Canadian could, or should?” – “If they weren’t painting anything particularly Canadian, why pigeonhole themselves as merely a Canadian Artist?” – “…you don’t see a lot of Canadian actors who live and work in the US throwing themselves in the ghetto known as Canadian Actors…”
As he bid her goodbye he asked if she had a minor, a backup plan. He shook her hand and told her he had really enjoyed the conversation and joking said he was off to find a fare to the bus station… as this seemed the natural thing for him to do next.
There's really not a lot of choices in where to go when bolting away from the railway station. Ya gotta get out of Zone 11 as quickly as you can. He slipped quickly into Zone 8. Again with no diddling nor dawdling he raced down Sir John’s Boulevard, a left onto Johnson, into Zone 6, heading as quickly as I could to back to the middle again; back to Zone 1. As he rounded St. George's corner, left onto King towards the Market Square he heard a shout… “hey, taxi”!
…it's kind of a surprise for someone to manually flag a cab on the street in Kingston. I stopped short, backed up… In jumped a big fella who said,
“Can you get me to the Bus Station?”
The big fella, a little surprised, maybe taken aback a bit by the almost high five n’ fist pumpin' reaction to his simple request for a lift, from a cab. After telling him what had just happened, that the trifecta was completed, he joined in the celebration best he could. Sharing in our cabbie friend’s trifecta celebration turned out darned nice gesture considering the big fella was just now heading back to Newfoundland after a three days visiting a good friend in the hospital who was almost lost in a head on collision near Brockville earlier this week.
“Any lasting injuries…?”
…perhaps a brain injury, he almost didn’t want to ask him… yup… “Well, the brain does have a way of doing all it can to heal itself, learning to work in different ways my friend… your friend will be OK.”
They talked a bit about driving and how he try to do it safely. Turns out this Newfoundlander was an underwater welder, worked on the rigs. They shared an intensely enjoyable conversation about doing jobs in hostile environments, you know, like driving this cab here on these sleepy streets of Kingston, on the way to the… bus station… trains n’ airplanes... and all three stations... church basement BINGO. The Holy Trinity of consecutive Kingston taxicab destinations?
After a few more fares, when things started to naturally settled down, he found himself idle for a bit up at the Riocan Mall parking lot. He to the time to stretch, out of the cab and lit up a smoke to ponder the odds of the cleverly devised, GPS driven newfangled dispatch system serving him up three straight trips to the airport, bus and train stations… by 7am no less. A good day already, would get even better.
By 11am all the calls had been longer trips, double digit fares with time for good conversations. Indeed, this cleverly devised n’ automated, the GPS driven dispatch system was working well that day. Catching his breath and out for a stretch in the parking lot a way out west, along Gardiner… The Riocan Mall is a vast “big-box” store strip mall that stretches on forever. He felt the urge to give a little bit of thanks, to say a little prayer. As he wasn’t exactly standing anywhere near any of Kingston’s holiest of locations... The Riocan Mall's big-box parking lot would just have to do.
He had never been much of a really religious fellow, but he had been easing up on many of his old conceits lately. Conceits such as, say such as, a tired n’ silly old disbelief in the existence of God... This morning, a good morning for business and a beautiful day, he thought maybe he should give the whole, believing in God business an even bigger shot. As he stood alone, leaning on the opened door of his cab, bathed in and squinting at the day's bright sky, awash in a surprisingly warm December’s lower hung sunshine… He thought to himself, let's push this giving thanks thing as far as he can. Grasping at what littlest bits of learnings, from all these recent reading, talking and thinking and meeting with good fellows these last few years. He almost spontaneously, definitely quite awkwardly blurted out the words “If thy will be done…”Eh hem,
“If thy will be done… let the brain injured friend of the underwater welder be healed up, hopefully making his Newfy buddy very happy”
…if thy will be done, let the Ukrainian bride of the helicopter pilot break free of immigration's red tape and be repatriated with her lover, her new husband here, where Canadians paint Canada as it ought to be painted…
…you know, where it’s just a little bit safer.
“If it be thy will, let our sweet little Miss Art History Major find a career outside of the aisles of Costco or Walmart or… further afield than these vast n’ endless big-box strip mall parking lot stores…” maybe she’ll switch to studying nursing as I jokingly suggested on our way to the train station.
If thy will be done, help the so totally drug addicted woman who bickered with her husband in back of my cab while headed clear across town; find an answer to her drunken mumbled confession, “I hate this life”…
…allow the soon to be a mother-in-law’s overworked and exhausted future son be seizure free for a few days, at least help him keep his driver’s license…
If it be thy will, let the woman who broke out into tears as she got out of the wheelchair and laid her broken leg out in the backseat of my car enjoy Christmas despite having to cancel all her holiday travel plans to northern Winnipeg and… let the anxious car salesman who admitted so shamefully that, for the first time in months, he’d taken his sick stricken wife’s Oxycodone again...
if it be thy will let him not have to have some cabbie like me swing him by the Methadone clinic on his way to work... too many more mornings.
If thy will be done, let his young wife respond to these last few treatments and overcome her cancer and get on with her new career here in Kingston and enjoy raising their daughter… at this point he was quite certain, this was when he was meant to say
Amen... right?
If God only knew, well probably he’d know that he was actually really quite happy with the good folks that got directed towards him and put into his cab by this new-fangled and very clever, GPS driven automated dispatch contraption. God very likely knew how on many days, quite certainly on days when the December sun seems a bit brighter, definitely warmer that he was thankful to be driving this cab. He loved being, just along for the ride with strangers who’d tell him short stories of things that they’re doing or might get up to when they arrive at the places, say the airport, bus or train stations. …then further afield in faraway places he’d take them part of the way to… if thy will be done, let him be healthy and happy enough to keep driving for yet another day and… enjoying every moment with the random peoiple who God puts in his car.
Driving… around in these little limestone circles picking up and yicketty yacking with all sorts of people as cab drivers do. At the risk of sounding like he was once again tooting, dare he say, he did tool about in a spectacular fashion and with a graceful ease around this old little city. Not honking at, but definitely grilling his riders softly, in simple conversations, peppered with questions. Was he like this lone goose? Also looking for, something? Perhaps just another story to hear; a new friendship or something as simple as something different to see. Maybe some sense of belonging? Or it’s easily quite possible, there was just nothing much better to do.
Being… of good service, his motto, may honestly be the only thing he should aim for he thought to himself. Certainly it wasn’t for the measly bits of money, dimes and nickels; nor his new vaunted status, nor even a notoriety he once dreamed he was after. Simply starting each day down by the boatyard, watching his glorious stars change position. Looking up at the moon and noticing a goose, flying solo quite spectacularly low, over his car. A sight that on this colder almost winter like morning really got him thinking; all these things he once got himself up to and into… he started laughing and smiling as he stood watching and listening to this little one goose keep on honking… you know maybe, just maybe the smile and somewhat sharp and pointed chuckle, this laughter was all the silly goose was after… maybe him too, maybe this smile was all he was after.
Was he ready for Christmas? Certainly. For what was maybe only the second time ever, he had absolutely no plans for Christmas; well, no plans other than to go for a drive. He told his owner he’d be happy to drive on the day of Christmas Eve. Weather permitting, he’d drive out to Trenton for a Christmas eve dinner with his family, then head back to drive again on Christmas Day. He was even a little excited to see just what it would be like in Kingston on Christmas day; feel the flow of the City, meet the kind of people who needed of a lift on Christmas Day. Honestly, he was more excited about driving this Christmas than he’d been about Christmas in a very long time.
The last time he had absolutely nothing to do on Christmas was that one miserable year in New York City. Earlier in the year he had split with his Jewish girlfriend. He’d been stuck with her for far too long. Like all recently split up NYC couples, they still lived in the same apartment but. she had gone off to her folks in Long Island to do their traditional Jewish Christmas things, shopping for bargains. On that Christmas Eve he went to a rigorous midnight mass at Smokey Tom's, better known as St. Thomas Episcopalian on 5th Avenue. It’s the other big church in Manhattan, just across the street from Patrick's Place, New York City’s most famous Catholic Church. St Pat’s was always way too busy to get into.
After the service he walked home to Brooklyn over the 59th Street Bridge, after a few 3am beers at some random, still open bar somewhere in the Upper East Side. He woke up Christmas Day a bit hung over and quite early considering. He had a notion to wander around handing out cigarettes to homeless folks. He walked over the Williamsburg Bridge, into the city and have breakfast at some Jewish deli, then walked back over the river and as deep into South Brooklyn as he could manage. He had a Muslim dinner at some Turkish restaurant, took the Subway back into the City, found an open hotel bar then wandered home thinking… what a lovely Christmas alone in New York City it was.
Don’t misinterpret this. He was definitely not one of those folks who couldn’t be bothered about Christmas; always looking for a way out of it. On the contrary seriously enjoyed what some might consider to be the more bothersome Christmas projects. There were always a bunch of songs, some carols he liked to hear at least once and made sure he found a way to hear ‘em. It had been years since he had an extensive Christmas List or too too many shopping obligations, but would usually yank himself into a few stores, see if he might tumble upon something someone might like… For years his shopping M.O. had been to browse with intent to get gifts for one or two people, if something jumps out at me for them, or someone else, well that was the person who’d get the gift that year. He no longer had the need to go out looking to fill a specific list of specific gifts for specific, he simply put himself in a position to let certain gifts find him. So far… no one had been too disappointed with the results of this strategy.
He had no illusions of being totally alone this Christmas. On the contrary, he planned to be a crucial component along the critical path to the success Christmases of quite a few people; as he drove 'em around in his ol’ cab, here in this quaint looking almost Currier and Ives like kinda city. He imagined, maybe one of his fares would invite him in for part of their turkey dinner, maybe offer him a cold turkey on wonder bread sandwich the day after. He’d eventually leave all these admittedly remote possibilities open along with a raft of other ridiculous expectations he dis not have. He figured he may also yet get an invite from some random friend who had an empty Christmas seat to fill. He found himself resisting this, actually more hoping it wouldn’t happen. He kind of hoped he’d get a far flung fare, one that would take him a way out of the city. He’d then spend the rest of Christmas Day simply, coming home... for Christmas.
So, off he went alone, in his cab. No plans no pressures... no commitments nor obligations. A simple day of driving around in limestone circles to see what happens on the streets of Kingston at Christmas.
It was not lost on him that this little guilty pleasure was just a little bit selfish; if it weren't, how could he feel guilty. He’d even admit that it was a well-crafted plan to have no plan at all. In the end, something would happen, there would be a story, maybe even two. He imagined how lovely this guilty pleasure plan of his could unfolds around him… And... …indeed, he did know there’d be a cost. All guilty pleasures come with costs… all tolled? Sometimes the cost of happily being alone on Christmas is… well, this Christmas it was simply quite immeasurable. As always.
That first morning Scottie had shown and told him a few things about driving. It's important to mention, Scottie told all these things in his especially strong Scottish accent. Scottie never judged how he was doing as a cabbie, never suggested what was right or wrong, he mostly just doled out just tips n' tricks that he might find useful. Scottie also shared a few of his own stories. If someone had said Scottie had been driving a taxi around the city of Kingston as long as there had been taxis in Kingston, pretty much forever, except for the strong Scottish accent, which had to come from somewhere, why wouldn’t you have believed him?
Scottie lived in one of those three hellish looking “project” style apartments up in the heights, on Compton no less. The one’s he’d been told are actually quite lovely and whose tenants are really quite friendly; quiet and quite nice to live with. He lived there alone with two, maybe three cats. Scottie admitted once that he was afraid that one day these cats of his might eat him. Apparently, he often forgets to feed them. He told this story while showing the scratches they'd given him the day before. He speculated that he was given these scratches to remind him they’re waiting, watching and ready.... Scottie had reminded him of something… He too fear doing all this driving… alone.
Himself, he no longer kept nor have any interest in cats or any dirty old pets for that matter. He like to keep on the ready. He called it his readiness for action; his emotional ability to stay as long as he wanted, but be able to leave any time he liked. Pets he always though kind of weigh one down; anchor you to a place… more so than kids even.
Each time he drove Scottie to or from work, he’d worry that he was getting a bit too used to being a cabbie, might be enjoying it a little too much. He worried that these early starts and the long hours may eventually exhaust him, force him to withdraw even further into his own little dinggie-dirty apartment. He really had no interest in one day waking up in a dark dank, “project” like apartment complex up on Compton (no less).
So he’d eat as much and as well as he could. He’d mega dose himself with echinacea, drink as much coffee as is possible and only smoke cigarette whenever he could. He thought about starting up swimming again and looked forward to keeping an old promise he made to himself by joining a sailing club and spending a whole summer racing, sailing every evening this coming season. Then again maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to end up like Scottie. After all he seemed happy. But as much as I do love this driving... I really don’t want to be eaten by cats.
She looked to be about 17 months pregnant as she waddled down the steps from her apartment and plopped herself into my cab.. Just as I was kicking myself for not having leapt out to open her door… “What you’ve not finished cooking that turkey? When are you due?” She said she was ready to pop but not for a month or so… no problem, the speed bumps on Queen Mary wouldn’t bother her a bit.
“We're off to Nickel and back?” After having her mother over for Christmas morning, she was off to pick up her son from a night, Christmas morning at his dad’s place. “How many do you have?” She told me the one in the oven would be her second, her girl, her voice, crackeling with smiles. Immediately correcting herself, she reminded us both that she had two sons… the other one spending Christmas at another dad’s place... this year.
We swung around beside a lawn strewn with last year's broken Christmas presents. As she ran across the muddy yard, Jennifer opened the door in her pyjamas to greet her. Dominic, was excitedly pulling on his coat, rushing out the door faster than the coat could follow as they all exchanged hugs, warm friendly smiles …waves goodbye as the two of them skipped back into the cab. “Did you get everything you asked for?” asked his overstuffed n' happily beaming to see him, mama. “I got Halo 3, but I wanted 4… but I got my x-box, it’s almost all set up… there’s a wire that connects it to…” “…so Nana Ann is at our place for lunch, then we’re going to Nana Carols for dinner…” “…are there presents at our place?” yes, and there’d be presents at Carols place too.“...which one’s Nana Carol?” She was the one with Bob, Danny's mom. “Why doesn’t Nana Carol live with grandpa Mike?” “Because they split up like you dad and I did… “Oh and Nana Helen is coming tomorrow, she want’s to take you downtown all by yourself…” “Which one’s he again?” asked Dominic. I could easily understand his confusion, but then immediately imagined the, what must have been six or seven mountains of dollar store gifts this kid would be faced with over the last and next 24 hours or so…
Mom’s place in the morning with Christmas dinner at Dad’s.... shuffling folks from various parents and exes to grandad’s new girlfriend's place then over to either, is it her mom’s or maybe it’s her dad’s or both their turns to host Christmas this year. Then, just as I was kicking myself for dang not again, not leaping to open the door for Dominic’s mother’s I was left thinking of… my son with his mother down in New York, his Aunt, Uncle and cousins over from Rome, with Nonna... me alone in my CAR, driving around Kingston this Christmas… it only my half that's half bad... on the other hand... the tips and the snippets of stories describing which family member's been left where with who were pretty darned good... this year.
Weather or Not
Why bother to get a head start by looking at a weather report? They sky is going to do what it’s going to do, I can’t change it, it’s way way bigger than me. Knowledge of the weather need only be immediate, for the moment… what’s it doing, right now as I turn this corner, search for a street number and start looking for my fare's address. Oh, certainly anticipation and preparation, bracing oneself for what may come next might be worthwhile, but, what's good about certainty and… where’s the fun in that?
I pick up a sense for the impending weather from the folks in my car, “…they say it’s going to be warmer all this week.” “Looks like we’ll finally get some snow tomorrow.” ...listening half heartedly I flick on the windshield wipers when I need them. After all, I work outdoors in a fast moving climate controlled canister, a capsule slowing a bit if the roads get too slick and slippery. I’m rarely more than a half hour from home if my socks get too wet. I may carry a duffle bag one day, a heavy coat, gloves and bigger boots if it ever does begin to pile up. In the meantime, I'll watch out for the weather through my windshield… so totally in awe of it all.
I began to drive at the end of last August's lush summer’s green. Treated to what was quite likely the most glorious fall I’ve yet to see. I watched the old maple at St. George’s corner at Johnson and King turn a certain blood-orange red I’d never expect was even possible. There is a clump of trees along City Park that, as they thinned on rainy days, their black stems seemingly having been drawn quickly, charcoal stick gestures behind yellow, ever brighter, day after day fewer translucent leaves laying against damp darkened limestone grey skies… Kingston is a garden… I’ve rolled down the middle part of Johnson, in the morning as the sun broke open and cast an electric hue over the city, bouncing so brightly off Brock Towers, one couldn’t help singing, something, anything that came to mind while heading further into the older part of town, just passing Barrie. I’ve swung onto Livingston as the sunshine between each leftover leaf. glittering, seemed to match seamlessly with twinkle off each little wavelet out on a light winded lake. I’ve watched this garden blown furiously to the ground, nothing left but old bent spines, almost colorlessly brown and dried out anatomy diagrams, Grey’s nervous and/or cardiovascular systems… barely breathing as we head towards another older man’s winter…
I’m sure a few pals might wonder if this ever gets boring, driving around and around on these same few streets day in day out, hour after hour. Much like any moment I’ve spent over n' over with any really good friend, I’ve never driven down the exact same street twice... I’ve never tired of a moment spent doing the same thing with old friends, who… like the weather, that allows me to decide for myself whether to be bored or not. And like the weather, why sit around and wonder what any of these wondering friends may do next. Oh, certainly it’s good to put on the right boots when off to meet with good friends, but to worry over what might “blow over that day”… I’ve seen glittering smiles, twinkle off the same same cheeks where knotted brows and gloomy thoughts grow then get blown to the ground, swept away by a simple lighter blown breezy n' comfortable conversation… boring? The skies going to do… as my friends might do; it's all much bigger than me and rather than try and get a head start on it all before I head out the door… the weather reports right up in the sky and... oh great, and it’s starting to snow... again.
Not Another Dream Job?
I just found out the Queen's Inn overnight desk clerk is a Jazz man, go figure a drummer. He’s got no gigs on the go, bandless at present but he does have a kit in the basement, a keyboard, a little makeshift recording studio he’s laying down tracks on. He knows Mr. Love and gets into Musiikki, sometimes. I told him how much a friend and I enjoy hearing Trebot and Nubbs… he smiled.
I was surprised to find out that the overnight desk clerk over at the Queen's Inn hadn’t seen Jarmusch’ Night Train… “are you into films?” he asked me. I told him how I’d kinda given up for the most part on movies as even the so-called underground indies seemed all formula these days. All high realistic tales from tiny little towns, made specifically for Sundance. You know well written but tounge-twisted little plots, most with unsatisfying non-endings… I guess there’s no harm in bringing the craft down a notch, I thought immediately as I said this.
He spoke of his music, I spoke of a mission in re-univenting myself, rebuilding unfinished sculpture, pretending as we drove the fast way uptown on my secret little back street, I told him I was taking this route as, first it was faster and skipped all the lights and that it allowed me to send magical vibrations to a loved one whose place we’d drove by. He dug it and asked me what books I’d been reading… “I’ve kind of given up on books too…” I told him how’d I’d run out of time to read any longer as I’ve simply left myself too much to do. He got it but said all the same, you should read Miller… “…really” I said, shaking a bit, “…you’ve just spooked me… man.” As, this was the gist of an earlier vibration.
As I stopped, pulled into his driveway to drop off the over-night desk clerk a way up on Montreal. I mentioned I might pop into say hello one evening if I were walking back from Musiikki and tapped on the taxicab medallion, my licence to drive I have dangling from my dashboard… “ever think of getting one of these, I bet you’d get into it?” He shook his head for a moment as he told me “I’d love to…” but cars petrified me.” He sounded a bit tired but quite happy to be doing the dream job he’d been given. “It’s really just great having a job… man” he told me as he popped outta the cab.
Finally, a Little Fear and Maybe Way Too Much Loathing on the Way, a Way Out to Old Collin’s Bay
Outside of myself, there’s very little to be afraid of here in this little city of Kingston… Ontario. I’m sorry, but at the risk of sounding, maybe a bit slighting, maybe even all high n’ mighty, the very worst neighbourhoods in this limestone wonderland remind me of the better neighbourhoods I used to trudge through to get to far worse places. Those nastily useful places I once felt the burning desire to get to in those a little bigger and then gigantic cities… some time ago. This being said, Kingston’s not without it’s own wretched teams of absolutely creepy n' crazed people. Sadly, crystal has taken her hold over far many more of the denizens here than one would ever want to admit possible in a wee garden-like place such as this.
I got the first sort of frightening dose of good old fashioned fear on Christmas Day morning. Excited as any little boy would be on this glorious of all mornings, I jumped into CAR 29 and bolted straight down to the boatyard. Happily wondering what presents might await me there this morning. Maybe a goose or a low flying duck, maybe one magic little star peaking out from behind this myst. There'd be no stars out on this morning as I stood in the cloud covered darkness, I heard something, what was it? People talking loudly over by the Place Des Armes Condos? A Christmas morning domestic? A little too much eggnog… again, sadly I couldn't get that lucky… The sound was a deranged Bumblebee man coming quite quickly towards me. Strolling alone from the far shore. He was muttering to himself, breathing heavily, sniffling and grunt punching the air as if faced with some imaginary boxing match foe. I kept CAR 29 between myself and this Bumblebee man as he walked by, while I still tugging away on the morning’s wake me up smoke. Bumblebee man caused an uneasy feeling, but mostly I felt unfairly interrupted in this special place I've grown to call, my very own. This special place now being invaded, on this most glorious of all mornings, by some muttering idiot raising inside my still somewhat unawakened mind, just a little twinge of fear.
This particular Bumblebee man was wearing a wholly soaking wet ratty old yellow and black striped parka, unzipped and open. He was wearing no hat against the windy wet weather that had mangled his hair… He could just as easily sweated it wet as by simply being out far too long on a long damp night. Who knows, and who know why I would have to face this F’n mess of a fella on this, my special Christmas morning in CAR 29. Why’d I have to put up with this shit, on this day of all days? All of suddenly like he broke from stride, his mutterings stopping, his air punching trance ending as if he'd just boxed his way out of a corner. He took notice of me and moved towards the CAR... I jumped into it and with an “…I don’t need this shit” momentum and sped out of my boatyard quick, like a jumpy little bunny… thinking well, damn this really dampened what should have been a very jolly good start to my day. As I spun onto Wellington, I got my first call... over to one of the patient visitors “stay over” places, those boarding house like guest homes over behind the Hotel Dieu Hospital on Johnson… I sat out in front, in what was a now dreary rainfall and dreamed of a trip out of town… turned out to be a NOW SHOW… oh, what a glorious way to start this day… this day of all days.
After about a half hour of mindlessly cruising around the pretty old part of this little city; looking at the few pretty twinkling lights folks had left on overnight. I figured Bumblebee man would have wandered off by now. I swung back into the boatyard, straight to what I’ll now call Amen Corner, over by the little tree next to the little bench where, a few nights back, a good pal and I had watch a full moon’s halo make an eyeball of itself in the more brightly lit up early night's sky. I didn’t get the chance to even get out of the CAR, taking the time to do a little reading. I flicked on the overhead lights on, blinding me to the outside; didn’t hear even the slightest of rustling when all of a sudden there was Bumblebee man blurred through the rain smudges of the window, pulling at the passenger side door handle. A click of the locks as I popped CAR 29 into drive, hit the gas and got the hell outta there… just as mad as I was startled... fast as I can.
It wouldn’t be until the sun was quite a bit further up n’ behind the thick cloud bank that greeted Kingston on this Christmas Day morning that I’d bother heading back to my boatyard. A smeared yellowish dot softly lighting up the grey drizzly day as tried once again to stand there, as I do every morning, alone in my thoughts at Amen Corner while having the morning’s most relaxing of smokes. I did notice that Bumblebee Man was still there. He'd made his way all the way out to the end of the jetty, the breakwater. No worries, I figured it would have taken him at least ten minutes to walk in from out there. Then as if properly wound up, like clockwork, damn if he didn’t start coming back towards me… like an overly n' poorly programmed wind-up toy zombie-like android, he had noticed CAR 29 and… he just kept right on coming.
I watched him stutter stumble on back; far too far out there to hear him, I just assumed he was still sniffling and grunting as he air-punched and ducked in and around the boats all nestled on shore, up on their cradles and wrapped up in tarps for winter. I figured I had time enough to finish my smoke; when Bumblebee man went out of sight behind some old work sheds, I stepped back into the CAR and finally headed off for good into what turned out to be a pretty marvellous day shuffling folks from Mom’s Christmas to Dad’s… by the end, I’d pretty much forgotten about Bumblebee man. Was he was having his own special Crystalline Christmas? My guess, who knows, perhaps he'd slipped into the Cataraqui and floated off to greet his own special Jesus on that glorious morning. Nothing about it in the papers but, who reads the papers anymore and with so few of them writing up stories about fucked up stoned losers who fall into rivers.... who'd really care.
The very next morning, Boxing Day as it's known here, before I was even able to get to my boatyard, I got my first call. An up late gang of just past being cute kids, still up and at it this early in the morning on something. A friendly bunch who decided to school me on Ecstasy …apparently they preferred pure MDMA, Molly as they now called it. I don’t know, I guess I must have missed something over the years. Good thing I’ve not been on the market for ages, who knows what I’d have got myself into asking for something not knowing of it’s name change. Bloody marketing guys, they’ll rebrand everything eventually if we don’t watch ‘em too closely.
As I listened to them ramble on about next to nothing, I overheard one of them mention a place called The Trap. Some rotten old flea bitten room in back of the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour in that slightly dilapidated row of old converted into retail row of houses just up from Division on Princess. Just as I dropped off the kids, a bit further up Princess, near Alfred, I got my next call for… the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour just up from Division on Princess… My guess at what the place called “The Trap” might have, that place they had mentioned, appeared to be bang on the money. As stepping into my CAR, early Boxing Day morning was none other than a trapped fella I could only describe a way to old to be this so stoned and sketchy, this early in the morning. Quite honestly the scariest, well to be totally honest, the only scary fare I’ve had in my CAR, so far.
Immediately inside Mr. Too Old n’ Sketchy started in with the standard fare nonsensical disjointed babble. I paused the CAR when he told me we’d have to stop at a convenience store as he had no money “…can I put this on my ODSP account?” I radioed his account number in knowing full well I wouldn’t get a confirmation from the confounded dispatcher. I just wanted the way too old, self inflicted scatter brained asshole in my back seat to be reminded that indeed I did have this radio contact. I politely told him we couldn’t use his disability account on account this wasn’t a trip to or from a methadone clinic, “…you know (saying under my breath, you fucking asshole) what this account of yours is assigned to you for.” After a bit of whining he shuffled through a wad of bills he had all along in his pocket and handed me two twenties to hold on to as I drove him all the way out to Collin’s Bay. A twenty or so minute drive I did all I could to cut to 15... or so. There but for the grace… I thought as I raced through the first of a few “...but officer It was yellow” lights…
A few days earlier, I’d picked up a couple of young fellas out there in Old Collin’s Bay. It was nearing the end of a shift when they asked me to whisk them, as fast as I could, all way through to the other end of the city so they could drop off an “expense report” to a welfare worker. One of them had just been paroled, the other, his older brother seemed to be coaching him on the finer points of making sure the money kept rolling in as he rolled out of Quinte, the smaller, local Pen where they park misdemeanor offenders; drunkards, the lit up n' high guys and semi-violent idiots who'd maybe taken a swing at the arresting officers when caught being too drunkenly stupid in public places on those special occasions of their own making. I was obligingly racing along Bath Road, near Queen Mary, towards the welfare office when they had me stop… they’d noticed something and decided they needed to pull into a friend's place… for something… you know, something or another.
I told ‘em they’d need to leave me something of value if they wanted to hold onto the car, have me wait as they visited this friend. I chuckled as the recently released jailbird, the boneheaded younger of brothers handed me his Tim Horton’s stuffed cookie, “…you’ll have to do better than this?” The older brother handed me two twenties as they got out and went on up inside one of Kingston’s joyless looking row-house low income apartments. I waited until it was really too late to make it to the welfare office before wandering up and knocking on the door. I asked the nice young lady who answered if these two young fellas would be re-joining me on this ride? The fare was getting bigger and we really had to go now if they wanted to get to the office to take care of the business of making sure they’d get more money. She went in then came right back to tell me to wait just a few minutes more.
The brothers stumbled back into the CAR well after we’d run out of time to make it to the welfare office. They asked me to take them back home to Collin’s Bay, stopping first to pick up a phone card and to see if a pair of opening night Star Wars tickets might still be handy... and, didn’t that get them excited when they scored themselves seats for tomorrow night’s 4:30 opening day show. In our good mood the three of us helped out some homeless traveler outside the theatre. I gave him the leftovers in an old pack of cheap reservation cigarettes; the older brother gave him a twenty to help him get back to Toronto, for Christmas… They were all giggles as they wore their especially created and branded Star Wars Storm Trooper 3D glasses the rest of the way home. It was dark as I pulled into their poorly lit driveway, almost missing it as I pulled off the Bath Road, which out here is nearly a highway… We’d spent nearly an hour together so almost quite fondly I wished ‘em a gleeful goodnight, wishing them a Happy Christmas, telling ‘em I hope they enjoyed their Star Wars opening moment. Forty dollars or so richer, I logged out and headed CAR 29 in the direction of home.
…now let's get back in the CAR on Boxing Day morning. I was doing my best to keep old Mr. Twitchy, Too Sketchy calm and relaxed. If I’ve learned nothing, I know it takes very little to get a fella in the throes of a vein-banged or smoked up Crystal Meth high hopping, mad or erratic, even just a little plain crazed enough to start flailing, screaming or simply getting too out of control to be riding in the back seat of a cab in the dark on the way out to some unknown address that he promised we’d find along the way; a way out to Old Collin’s Bay. I’ve had far too many of my own conversations with overly-stoned-stupid drug addicts to know enough to keep the conversation from herkily-jerking away from the mission at hand; that of getting this asshole OUT OF MY CAR! I softly kept his babbling-ramblings roiling in a friendly direction; laughing with him at his inane proclamations, sharing best I could in his deranged delusion, always assuring him that he might be making sense, anything, just enough to keep him focussed on giving me directions to exactly where we were going… as quickly and politely as we could. I know enough to know, one wrong flinch and this fella could have easily started digging through his pockets, past the wad of bills he couldn't find earlier. Looking for something sharp n’ pointed... I kept him quiet and we eventually found the place we'd been headed towards.
As soon as he said “…hey turn left, right in here.” it immediately seemed all at once all too familiar. I knew exactly where we were. I told him I’d taken two boys for a ride through town from this exact place just the other day. His mood changed (again) immediately to one of, hey it might have even been joy… “Oh, for Christ sakes…” he chirped, “…so you've met my boys!” I asked him if they had enjoyed Star Wars, he mumbled something as I handed him the change from the two twenties he given me to keep the ride going earlier. Thankfully he simply stumbled out of the CAR as I wished him and his boys another Happy Christmas. As soon as he was clear of the CAR, headed off towards his door, I peeled out of his driveway and went straight to the Tim Horton’s just down the road… it wasn’t open, but I wanted to stop, decompress rest my mind for a bit, digest the moment and think about, what was it I was feeling? Was it old fashioned fear, or was I simply loathing… all these so totally lost in nasty drugged losers.
I asked myself... just what would I miss If I were to lose my life behind the wheel of this CAR 29? A crash, a wrecked misadventure or an inadvertent unprovoked slash of a pointy thingy poke from some meth head I'd pick up along my way. Not much I supose, the tip, the next fare the next nice conversation... so losing my life, is this what I fear? Or do I fear more my own growing loathing of what’s being stolen by these characters I’ve just met… Do I fear seeing another family of nutbars, two too boyishly young jailbirds destroyed by watching daddy stumbling home stoned out his mind after Christmas, out of his mind on the worst drug anyone could ever imagine? Do I fear my morning’s serenity being shattered by a wretched Bumblebee man who can’t leave me alone in my own place on a very special morning, that place I go each and almost every single morning and on those special full mooned eyeball evenings with a very special friend? Perhaps I fear most for the future these morons will leave for my son.
Honestly though, it’s really just Kingston and I truly don’t really don’t fear any of this all that much… And who wouldn’t loath having their garden-like little city being sullied by this kind of annoyance? Putting up with these far too strung-out and flung-out from the normal, totally lost people, wretchedly wandering around without any real purpose? Who doesn’t get tired of all those who say we can and should save ‘em then start by doing absolutely nothing about it all by themselves… I guess it’s my anger at this that has me fearing my thinking on this the most as… all I can do really is to get ‘em where they’re going while hoping they don’t get the notion to poke a hole in me and my imaginary impression that this place is any different than the other places I’ve been to… worse places that, if you can imagine, I can so easily recall and call all my own.
There It Is
There it is. After driving around these past few months, inside a subtle growing dread. A dreadful nagging worry carried more heavily, along for the ride over these past few glorious surprisingly warmer December weeks. It fell, or rather, was plopped down on top of us one evening. Not the virtuous softly swirling in the crisp clear vividly blue early morning daylight kind I’ve been extolling over with my passengers… Not the kind I’ve grown to enjoy these past two years simply by having purchased, finally, A pair of Sorels, a proper pair of boots and some long-john underpants for the first time in 35 years… These past few years, I’ve actually found myself going out in it, on purpose.
It drippled down for almost an entire day from low hung thick, dark and dreary clouds. Wet, as it immediately rained upon itself… It came looking almost pre-stained with the salt and sand we throw at it. So quickly becoming the “city snow” I’ve so despised all these years. A mucky annoyance, a bother, a bloody waste of windshield washer.
The first thing I did, the first day I drove a taxi in the snow here in Kingston? I headed to the boatyard. The wide open pre-dawn empty parking lot what better place to test the brakes on CAR 29. Getting the feel of her as we stopped short, engaged the anti-lock system. A bit of a boy came out in me as I spun a few doughnuts, accelerated a decelerated getting a feel for how the old girl might fishtail if I were to accidentally overly high tailed it to pick up the next fair. She felt good in the snow. Afterwards, standing at Amen Corner, the clouds began to softly illuminate the now surprisingly frozen Cataraqui, I began to feel less dreadful, even a little calmer.
Enough of the stuff fell, plopped to get a feel for how tight the city will become. If my experience here over these last two years holds true, there’ll be seemingly never ending growing piles of it over the next three month, plus whatever remaining agony the bitch and her buddy, old man winter decides to tack on after the end of March. Piles that’ll cut the lanes by a quarter; piles I’ll not be able to see up n' over or around as I pull around certain corners or back out of tight driveways… how much will I have to rely on the other drivers, will they look out for me, coming out?
Today, the sun broke through the still drizzling clouds for about a moment. That moment, I sped down Bath towards the prison. There was a myst over the iced over wetlands, the gap in the city at the foot of Armstrong. There’s a wide open field dotted with trees that separates the inmates from the rest of the citizens. Far enough in from the roadway was a fresher looking blanket, still white, untrampled and coated with a sheen of ice from the rain that's been off n on falling. I pointed and said to my fare “hey, that’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?”
As the roads began to dry out, I took CAR 29 in for a wash at the very end of my shift. I stood beside her in the again darkening grey clouded sunset, thinking how tomorrow will be another day in the snow. Another day in a string that will most likely stretch for a while, the first day of the next year. CAR 29 and I will greet this day fresh, clean and gleaming… I’ll make sure to get the opportunity to drive by the patch out by by the prisoners… Driving a taxi cab in the snow? I won’t be as easy, but I'm pretty certain, at any given moment, it will be very very pretty.
JackpotThe cab company I work for has done a very nice job of securing accounts, businesses offer their customers rides too and from their offices, service centres; schools shuttling around certain kids with special needs; retirement homes and various medical facilities that offer transportation, either themselves or through government programs. One government program we get a lot of is the Ontario Disability Support Program’s service of shuttling whacky "recovering" drug addicts to and from the methadone clinic. I sometimes wonder how many of the people I pick up from the condos on Ontario Street or from the Earl's bottom know just how many people in Kingston have disabled themselves with drugs that require they get their daily dose, the cuppa, a swig of juice. Me? I wasn’t too surprised, I was a bit surprised to find that I'd one day benefit, perhaps not as greatly as some, but quite tidily from our drug addiction industry, at least on the days I was lucky enough to get the call… Compton to Hickson, Patrick to Wellington and what not.
One of these addictive customers is particularly lucrative. He’s a fella up in The Heights who for whatever reason of his own making has been barred from the Methadone clinic closest to where he lives. He requires shuttling clear across town, three exits along the 401… Twenty sum odd dollars goin’, twenty some odd coming back. Not so oddly enough, this represents a nice bump on one’s daily sheet, the take, what we measure our days by. Not odd at all is that the ol’ Meth Head’s come to be known as the Jackpot.
Brian’s fine with this. He takes a takes a taxi often enough, that being every day he remembers he needs his juice. Often enough to know a lot, if not all us day drivers. I’m sure there are those he’d rather not have call him the Jackpot, those drivers so fearful or perhaps those who so despise this program. Me? I think Brian gets a bit of a laugh, a break from his agonizing anxiety when I roll up, he jumps in and I say, “good morning...
JACKPOT!”
I think Brian and I share a bit of a self effacing humor over our predicaments; I think Brian gets along with me as we kind of do speak a similar language.
I hadn’t had Brian for a few weeks longer than I would have expected. Long enough that I had started asking other drivers whether they’d had him in their car recently. I wouldn’t say I worry, but after even a couple of trips with the same folks a few times... OK I do start to worry a bit about my favourite little drug addicts. My favourite? It’s not Brian, I’ll likely get around to telling’ a story about her, some day. Let’s just say, it was a nice relief to see Brian today. I mean after all, who’d want the opportunity for a Jackpot to dry up?
Perhaps it was on account it being the first day of the year, but Brian was especially reflective today, “…I have to make some changes”. Indeed… “You certainly do Brian.” Maybe it was the fact that he had a disgustingly pusy, agonizingly sore and growing abscess on his arm where he'd poked himself over and over again with a makeshift syringe fashioned from a broken then sharpened Bic pen; you know, to ease his pain and suffering. Maybe it was just, as he said, after a while ya just do so much Meth you get absolutely sick… Who knows, maybe that pusy abscess and today's sick feelings will save Brian… one day.
These trips with Brian have started to follow a clear bit of of programming, a familiar script. On the trips out we tend to talk of old glory n’ gory days. Stories told boldly, to get a chuckle out of “…oh the troubles we’ve seen”, got up to, created and waded through; the trips back, I guess we’re meant to discuss the results. Today it was the messes we’ve made with, my kid, his kids, his grandkids, our families. Tis the season after all. I asked Brian of the state of his relationship with his kids, as of say, today. Not good. They keep trying and he keeps failing, often appearing to them as a still flailing just banged-up the minute before they arrive incoherently babbling dick-head. Daddy’s at it again, won’t ever stop, he mustn't love us, why bother… we don’t need this shit any longer. I reminded Brian, he’s got a monkey on his back that’s strong than life itself, that he’d happily go as far as kill himself to get smacked up, so, fucking up his relationship with his kids… ain’t nothing. It was a good trip.
As we got close to the turnoff to his place Brain raised a particularly sticky problem he’d been having, guilt. It’s quite often that drug addicts do have one of those “duh moments”. He whined on about how he’s trapped in the typical circle… banging to relieve his guilt, guilty over having banged. He asked me, “…what do you do? How’d you get over the guilt? What can I do…?” I scratched my head over this one and said the only honest answer I could come up with… “Brian, I haven’t gotten over the guilt, and haven’t a fucking clue how one could…”
I dropped off a good kid at one of the big building block apartments over on Leroy Grant. He was getting off an early shift from an OK job he’d just done well, he thought, on little over an hour’s sleep, you know Happy New Year. At the door was an anxious mom and her little girl, sniffling in tears, Cassy. They’d called another cab company, I told ‘em to hop on in, I’d take them to… Kingston General. “What’s your name?” Cassy… “…does someone have a little pain?” Distracted, her mom explained that Cassy was just finishing up another round of Kemo. She’d done great and was in remission, but had a fever which required yet another, after so many other visits to the hospital. I wasn’t sure if Cassy was hurting or sad that this visit had interrupted a visit she was having with a buddy upstairs… “...maybe we’ll go to Sharon’s place after the hospital…”
“What you get for Christmas Cassy?” I promised her I’d channel all my powerful New York City drivin’ skilz to get her to the doctor's quick as a bunny, a crazed bunny... then proceed, like the dork I am, we proceeded to hit every damned red light. “I got an underwater camera.” “Have you tested it in the bathtub by taking a picture of your toes?” …got a little chuckle, tossed at me from behind; a nice feeling chuckle from a scared little girl in my backseat who… is being put through just too damned much than …a little girl might like. Cassy wished me a little whispered Happy New Year as her mother paid the fare and herded her wee little thing in a familiar fashion, out of CAR 29 and into the Emergency Room Entrance... again.
Brian and I sat in the cab while I waited for my next fare. He was thinking that maybe moving from an apartment where six of the thirteen tenants are users might be a good idea for the new year. He told me how happy he was that just last night he’d turned down his girl friends offer to smoke a rock ‘cause he just needed to do some healing, needed to find out if he was really sick, or just “hung over” from banging day after day after day… I finally gave Brian a non-answer, “…you know Brian, you’re not ever going to get over that guilt. That monkey is never going to stop crawlin’ and clawing all over you.” At the risk of skirting along side some kind of, or gettin' all up n' religious, I suggested, maybe you're going to have to find a bigger monkey, one that can maim it, or maybe tame it, train it to do something more useful than handing him the sharpened Bic pen again. Maybe ya just gotta suck it the fuck up Brian. Or, maybe you’ll hit your own damned Jackpot one day… I mean, who knows… I just did... twice.
The Pelt Market is Down, Again
With a nod to all these fresh young kids in all these grand old halls n’ residents… I found myself in dire need of a new schtick, a new ice-breaking conversation starter to get things going with the Queen's kids the other day. My conversations with the little ones was getting kinda stale, especially the really young n' fresh ones. Those feisty first years, minds all full of not much more than enthusiastic mush. I mean how many times can one lean into ‘em with the “…where ya from?” “…how do you like Kingston?” Only to find yet another little still wet behind the ears n' wild one from out yonder upon the windswept plains of the Toronto hinterlands, all those Richmond Hillites, Vaughntoninans and Oakvillians . AND, of course they adore Kingston, I mean, really, why wouldn’t they, it is made of stone after all.
Out of the blue, I begun to tell a tallish tale of how us taxi-cabbiests were actually doing a double duty of a sort. In reality, we were firstly and fore-mostly, simply, just pelt collectors. Fishing our fares for the freshest student… pelts. The ever-freshest being the coveted first year pelt. I mean sure, one could argue, and perhaps it is just a little correlative, but “…have you ever wondered why there are so few of you left after April, so fewer of you returning for that second year?” Indeed, last year was a good year for pelts.
This year? The pelt market is down a bit. We’re not getting that good a dollar for your pelts these days. Some say it's UBER; the older, aging, crinkly n’ wiser drivers, well they put it down to Pierre and Claude laying out far too many trap lines out front of Victoria Hall and along down Albert and Collingwood Streets. Others say, well it just hasn’t been cold n’ wintery enough… yet. You know… the best way to prepare a fresh pelt is to stick it in a snowbank let it get all chill overnight, alive n’ wiggling n' wriggling, letting it turn all blueshly purple, you know, for the Engineer’s market. Those engineers, they do so love the leathery old Queen’s jacket!
The last couple of fresh n’ first yearlings I had in the cab were, well he was all nervously chuckling a bit in the back (little did he know), she was a little non-plussed but I could tell she was giving it some thought as I pulled my now patented stunt of driving right up and onto the the sidewalk of Stirling Hall, the Science Building, to get my fares as close to that door as possible, I will get caught one day… I assured her that she was safe for now. I mean with the pelt market being down as it is. Most of us cabbies, er fare-trade collectors were simply practicing a catch and release modus operandi, "... we're keeping up our skills“…you’ve nothing to worry about sweetie.” I mean, unless it gets much colder. Oh and by the way girls, no I’m not a dirty old man behind the wheel of this large automobile… I’m just eying up that pelt of yours, baby does needs new shoes after all… dontcha know.
It Seamed a Clear Victory for Chivalry Along Victoria One Sunday Morning
The building that burned down while under construction the day after I arrived in Kingston a few years ago has now been re-built and is open for business. It’s huge, an almost New York style apartment block of a building, built specifically to house hundreds of students. It’s just a little outside what many folks here call the ghetto seeing how it’s all the way over at Victoria and Princess, 663 Princess no less. Now, one need only ponder a little bit longer on that street number to realize just what it’s tenants have a view of… across the street. Of course, one might say, it’s actually the old horn rimmed fella himself who gets the advantage of, you know, watching over his flock; I mean if you were to give the street number a bit of an extra ponder.
Calls to 66… 3 are more often than not quite annoying. There’s little room to park n’ wait out front and, we’ve been specifically told, scolded about blocking traffic at this location which, is kind of a chuckle considering how these kids, the entitled ones, The Queen’s own brats do like to keep us inconsiderately, waiting. But waiting is not what this is really all about, nor inconsideration even. Really, quite honestly, perhaps even a little honourably, it’s about a kid, a couple of kids really who like a lot of kids on Sunday morning, really weren’t a couple at all.
I hadn’t noticed as I pulled up to 66… 3 that the destination was an address close by, just over on Earl. This would have me going down on Victoria, just a few blocks into the heart of the aforementioned student ghetto, or the Village if you’d like to be a little more poetic about, the gooey mess this neighbourhood can get to be. Thankfully this couple, a nice looking gal and a confident looking fella didn’t keep me waiting, jumping into my CAR all dressed up for a night of night clubbing in the Hub. Oh, I did mention, it was about 7am on a Sunday morning, indeed… leftovers.
My first thought, well isn’t this kinda nice, this fella ensuring the gal he’d snagged the night before didn’t have to do, what I still refuse to call “the walk of shame” all on her lonesome… especially not in those shoes, in the new fallen snow that had quickly turned to slush after yet another one of these mini-minorly furious flurries we’ve enjoyed so far, most of this winter. A nice enough fella making sure his, eh hem date made it these very few blocks home safely, at least without ruining her quite lovely high heeled shoes… And, for me… hooray, another under five dollar fare! My role in this most instant of adventures would be to drive ‘em to the point were little Mr. Good Dude could flash his daddy-backed plastic and waste even more of my precious time as I ran the under five buck fare… on a card… and did whole extra two whole more strokes of a pen pushing paperwork, sigh.
When we got to Earl, I pulled way up and over a smallish snowbank to ensure the dryness of our little Miss, now noticeably quite wobbly little Princess. Aiding in her shoes not getting all wet n’ ruined (is it just me who has a thing about nice shoes?) I stopped the meter as they jumped out “…keep it running” barked the good dude, hmmm… OK. I could only wonder why? Maybe they were just picking up another, perhaps I was to drive the magic “we ain’t takin’ no perp walks today” bus… on this… a slushy, snow day (all the kiddies cry, hooray)… maybe not.
After a few extra long minutes of what I thought may have been their canoodling at the door, I couldn’t really see ‘em, he jumped back into the Cab. “…you can take me back to Princess” he said, with not as much as a grin as I would have expected. I could only ask what I usually ask my Sunday morning leftovers at 7am… “…the end of a glorious evening?” or, “...the start of a beautiful day?”…”Neither” said this, it was soon to be discovered, fine young fella.
He told me how he’d, in his own way had rescued this young lady when they had become separated from her friend, who’d run off into the crowd at the Hub with yet another, quite likely less wonderfully nice young fella she'd found on her own. How he couldn’t get an address out of her last night so he had hauled her on homeward, to 66... 3. How he’d drop-plopped her into his bed, even though these days that’s a risk all on it’s own. How he’d spent the rest of the night finishing off some homework and a pizza, watching some television. “…well that’s quite honourable”, I mentioned. As the conversation continued, he did agree that his generation, these young guys n’ gals, friends of his do tend towards fucking first, asking questions and cleaning up the messes later, but that… He’d been raised by a grandma who’d smack him upside the head if he didn’t hold the door open for her… I immediately began to wonder, I bet his grandma is as old as me, and… I wonder if she’s, you know… hot… or not... eh hem… back in the CAR.
I kind of ignored this nice fella as he softened his own story, back peddled his own particular brand of man like mettle by oh so boldly claiming that “meh, they come n’ go…” that he didn’t really need the hassles that come with bedding one of the millions of drunken Princesses he’s faced with… offered up daily, or at least nightly at the clubs in the Hub. I ignored this as, you know his kind gesture had not only more than doubled what would have been a pretty measly little fare, it reminded me… the chitter chattering jokes these other cabbies belly laugh over, the stories the night drivers tell of loose girls and loud mouthed little boys aren’t always entirely fair. I’ve mentioned before how much I despise it being called “the Sunday morning walk of shame”, how I prefer “the dreamy walk of infinitely lovely n’ wonderful possibilities”… and after dropping off this one good ol’ boy it nicely striked me; despite this culture of getting what we want as quickly as we can get it, perhaps it is possible, and wonderfully so, that chivalry, at least a mild form of it, isn’t quite as dead, at least not totally in this quite wonderful n’ lovely little Limestone City… on this Sunday morning.
My Mama Done Told Me… (revisited)
There’s something I find a little bit romantic about junk yards, wrecking yards… There’s auto repair shop up near the barren top of Bagot that has that “yard” feel for some reason, at home in. It’s all walled in on two side, double high fences on another others, a great big rolling fenced entrance with a few scraggly trees, one of them a big willow drooping over the old cars laying around the yard in various states of repair; the shop itself, a cement brick wall with a huge rolling shop door forms the end of this gloriously shabby courtyard I’ve just pulled the CAR into… there’s a shed like building, an office with a set of old wooden stairs leading up to a rooftop deck which… I know now is the apartment I’d like to live in one day. Sigh, yet another lottery fantasy.
A mangy cat wanders down the old wooden stairs in advance of three woman, the younger looking one struggling with a huge suitcase and a baby basket, the oldest woman, a bit underdressed in her flowery terry housecoat is tugging on a butt as she gives the younger one a hug goodbye.
“Can I put that in the trunk for you?” I say with a smile, pointing at the baby basket. The patented ice-breaker I use with young mothers… She smiles as I grab her overweight suitcase and chuck it in the trunk while she buckles baby in back and we’re off to the bus station. It would appear today, I’m driving her part way along her freshly baked son’s “introductory tour” across Southern Ontario, Aunts, cousin’s, half brothers n’ step sisters… we talk a bit about, the boy’s name, Elijah, Arthur, “strong names”, and… you know circumstances… Somewhere along the conversation I mutter “…ya know, my mom always told me, if life keeps serving up curve balls the best thing to do is keep swing the bat.”
“…mine said that too.” I was told from the backseat. “Really?”… “Really.”
I found this kind of odd as I’d honestly thought I’d just made this one up on the spot, out the blue. She told me how her mother had played baseball very competitively and was always passing along these baseball related sayings. I admitted to her that my mom never actually told me this, but rather always warned me to “…never fart in the elevator.” Chuckling a bit the new mama in back told me how she always blamed the person next to her when she had, you know an accidental release. I’d already told her I had a young son of my own and told her “…hey, you know, now that you have a kid, you can always blame all your farts and bad smells a weird noises on him.” I explained how all it really took was to flick of one’s glance in the direction of the littler one and all suspicions simply evaporate in an air of good natured, go figure… She thought about this for a while…
As we darted across John Counter and pulled into the Bus Station parking lot… I felt the need to give this nice young lady little something else to think about, something a little nicer perhaps. I thought I’d mention to her that, despite the circumstances, just how blessed she was to have had a boy. “From this point on you’ll have a fella in your life who will love you, adore you, defend and do anything he can for you, for ever… despite your having blamed him for all your farting…” in the elevator or anywhere else for that matter. I couldn’t stress enough how much the little boys I know love their mother and this left me wondering… I wonder what Elijah might say his mama done told him… “don’t pay too much attention to cab drivers.”… perhaps… and my boy’s mama… the same maybe?
PART THREE
SUGAR FREE
…he can picture himself crawling down a dimly lit stairwell in the West Village, its 1962. A room full of pre-historic, all hip n’ dreadfully too cool college kids all dressed in black, maybe a few cardigans a couple of tweed jackets with patched elbows. The din of chitter chatter, an almost gossip like contiguous but overlapping conversation on Jung, Goldberg and the last Lenny Bruce show. The aroma of darkness, the richest of imported Italian pressed-espressos pitched in a mid-aired collision; an ancient biplane like dog-fight, a battle to overcome the stinging stench n’ thick blue haze of those chain smoked Gallous. Cigarette and coffee, an oh dear old moment’s sigh for those, were they really, the good ol’ days?…
A tiny young thing takes her place on the small stage that’s been tucked into the corner, barely elevated, she steps to the mic…
“I love my friends. No weirdness is the only base. Jeeze, I count on those little bastards always.”
…a pause, calm quiet, then a casual applause as lil’ Ms. Lady Sarah explains… her xxx’s and those ooo’s… dear.
He’s too often told himself that he really shouldn’t read emails when he get up in the middle of the night to take another bite from the triple chocolate muffin he leaves propped on his bedside table when earlier he’d run quietly away from his lonesome… a bite of dark chocolate, maybe downstairs for a un-tensing, one-third awake tug on a smoke… those last few too tightly held onto vices that will surely kill him just as, if not more quickly-er than all those long left behind…
He levitates… floats just up the hill and drifts ‘round yet another sharp corner; first street to the left… quite a bit further left from what he’d call his center.
…just over there, he watches from above as she stands in his bedroom doorway. He sorts through an old junk drawer to show her his medals of valor that he’d won in that war. Tossed casually, quietly, possibly a little bit bashfully, a self-demanded attempt at diminishing, not being, but ever yet a little vain gloriously onto his own nondescript bedside table, that matches the rest of his decor. Is it maybe the Bronze Star, or Silver… He shows her his deep loving red Purple Heart as her own heart skips that beat she’s no longer lost looking for… she’s happy, and he knows it… and how easily convinced they’ve become, that he’s happy too.
As he descends back into surprising comfort of his lumpen bed, now merely some left behind converted and poorly designed futon sofa, sheets covered in crumbs and stained with those bits of dropped chocolate; he’s reminded. One’s given very few chances to experience the gloriousness of this level of insane. Like he did maybe a little bit later than, most leave it behind earlier in life when they feel the need to get on with it… To rediscover it now, what, a blessing? Most certainly he’s left with two un-choices…
…after too many years spent, definitely not deliberately, but dithering, perhaps a little more wisdom, but more likely just a well-worn out but extremely useful ennui, after this night’s flight of fancy, simply… he’ll make neither of those two choices… if only to see in which direction these non-decisions will take him. To experience this floating another chance to keep flying, at this age… a blessing… once more.
It's not that my bag was empty, my bag wasn’t empty at all. I seem to remember this dread more a result of my bag being full of half-baked three line poems, forced truths, and for the most part meaningless little messages from the friends from which I always wanted more. I suppose our only being 7 or 8 years old at the time my have played into this disappointment, but...
I dreaded the day that our parents and teachers forced us to punch out thirty or so odd, perforated, cartoon hearts and decorate them with Valentine’s sayings and slogan, most of which meant nothing to us. Our teachers when then ask us to write some drivel that added nothing to the pre-printed drivel already printed on the cartoon side of the punched out card.
We’d fold them, seal them and stuff them into each of our classmates decorated paper bags on the front of each of the other desks in our grades one, two, three, four and five classrooms desk. Bobby asked Janie to be his valentine because she was nice or pretty, Janie said Bobby was cute, Susan never once said what I wanted to hear... I mean c'mon man! Susan, knew me more than all my other friends, she was my best pal, my girlfriend, the cutie beauty little patootie that I was going to marry when I was 17. When I mean, all grown up. Nope, all I ever got from Susan was a pre-perforated, punched out card, just another piece of cheap cardboard tossed into a paper bag… and, we never did get married.
About ten years ago. I brought my wife to a specially advertised couples’ dinner at my local pub. The food there was quite good, and well hey, a prix fix load of grub, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers might just be "what the doctor" had ordered up as a cure to a relationship that was floundering on the sea of boredom. We enjoyed a nice dinner, we had a nice chat, the first in quite some time. When we got home later that evening, she admitted to me that for the last three or four months she had been having an "affair" with a mutual friend. Although this "affair" was not the sole cause for separation, the fact that she could even could have had an "affair" disturbed her to the point that she realized enough was enough and that it was time to end this now not passionate enough marriage we had going.
Fucking stupid bitch! As much as she was the love of my life; I’d even go as far as to call her my soul mate, one of the very few persons that I think I was ever or would ever be as absolutely connected to... I will always hate her for coming to this ridiculous conclusion. Coming to this conclusion on this of all days. I mean it wasn’t like I had insulted her with a new set of stake knives, or tickets to the "ball game" like I had gotten her on previous Valentine’s Days. She came to this dreadful conclusion on a night that I had truly thought I was putting a little extra something into that red-construction-paper-heart decorated bag of hers.
Does this day mean anything? Well I guess maybe it does after all. While half a bunch of nimrods are walking here and there, dressed in pink shirts and skimpy underwear... while the asshole marketers [myself included], are trying to suck a few extra bucks out of heart strung morons whose greatest love adventure was picked out of a plastic bag they found buried at the bottom of a Lucky Charms cereal box... Today, this day, for me... this day will always means the absolute END of love. And I think that that is absolutely absurdly and gloriously fucking perfect.
You have been unaware that you are the benefactor of better decisions and of good, no great marksmanship? Hmmm, well, ok... here’s a tip for you. This is how I sleep, no get a great each night. As I read through the various historical accounts of the rise and fall of various civilizations, I can’t help but notice that even with a good number of major setbacks, mankind has been generally getting less and less brutal through the ages. There’s a reason we’re at eight billion and heading for more.
Simply
I do not judge the horrors of recent history against today’s morality, rather, I feel they are to judged against the morality of the times that directly preceded them. And, obviously, in so doing, I am commiting my voice, thoughts, instructions and ultimately my actions, doing the most, which is probably not that much, to ensure that future generations, our children and grandchildren’s generations do not judge our times too harshly.
To the bold men of the past. The men who chewed there way through the ravages of the histories prior to their own times. To the fierce fighters who righted what they perceived to be wrongs, who slayed those in the way of their virtuous pursuits, pursuits that ultimately cut a path directly to me and mine. To my glorious forefathers who, in my humble opinion got more right than wrong. I’ve nothing but thanks. Thank you for creating the perch upon with me and my generation has stood and, hopefully as nobly used as footing to foist our progeny up and upon what is simply… the next perch.
Those “in charge” want nothing more than to run around thinking everyone is racist while “we” are not. They want us to perceive our own virtue while missing it completely in others, “the other”. You are not racist. I am not a racist, nor are the vast majority of our fellow citizens racist in any fashion what-so-ever. The true racists are the power hungry, those who paint each and every one in such a way as to reflect their insidious garbage towards one another. The truly hateful are those who pit each of us against one another.
I roundly refuse to accept the accusation racist when flung so carelessly against me and my friends. Cowering towards and piling on these insults, this hatred is not a sign of virtue, it’s an indication of your submission. It’s a capitulation to those who’s only desire is for power. Power derived from evoking a superiority, or power of those who falsely believe they are due sympathy. Sympathy they feel deserved simply due to what’s really only the perception that they sit “below” those they’ve cartoonishly painted to as being held in undeserved positions of authority. I would hope someday there’ll be brighter minds and purer hearts at these institutions. That someday these better souls will censure this foolishness in some fashion. Sadly, I can’t see these places surviving this assault. That’ll they’ll need to be burned down before we can ever build them back… better than we have let them become.
Hey Doc. My son’s girlfriend may one day, god forbid walk into your clinic and ask for you to abort their child, alone. It’s her right and, it is after all, just a simple medical procedure, right? In ten states and twenty-nine countries, including this one, I can consult with my doctor and be prescribed, suicide. I can ask, you my doctor, for a prescription for death.
For years now, if I so requested, it’s been OK’d for me to request that I drift off into that long good night, stoned out of my fucking mind; but if I dared to have simply mentioned, requested that we tried hydroxychloroquine, even as a faint hopeful request to cure me of the dreaded Corona, this was tantamount to an act of treason? Even though the drug had been prescribed as a prophylactic against malaria since 1946; even though it was approved for use for lupus as some arthritis?
...even though hydroxychloroquine was approved by the US Food and Drug Administration for emergency use for COVID-19 you were never going to let us consider it because...
How much were you being paid??
My guess, without any of us even truly knowing the denominator nor the numerator; each and every one of us will be absolutely certain they know exactly what just happened. We will each of be convinced we know how bad it was, we’ll have theories ensuring ourselves there was someone to blame and we will all know exactly who that is. With respect to the latter, how many of us already have made up their minds?
Most of us will never divest from their current opinion, their initial conclusions. Even if/when new information arrives, we will ignore it; we will have moved on to different issues. It’s simple really, this is not our seeking the truth, ths is our picking a side, for the moment, during the time when it’s vital to be on one team or another. Once that moment passes, any change of heart or mind becomes irrelevant. Seeking the truth is no longer the nor maybe was the primary human motivation. Fitting in with the in group is our survival and… it will likely be the death of us all.
You didn’t have a time machine to go back and kill Hitler and he apparently killed millions. A time machine you with an opportunity to take out Trump and he didn’t.
Two big tips for you, first: Certainty is a hoax. Anyone claiming certainty is lying to you. Listen for the man who begins his tale with, this is the way I see it now. The second, wait for it. Let the lie run circles around the earth. Let it shine in it’s momentary glory. The faster it strides, the more assuredly it flies the more likely it is to dissolve upon it’s final arrival… as a bonus… cui bono and question everything (again and again),
SUGAR FREE [PART ONE]
While on my now twice weekly winter wander through the woods and in and about town I came to an overwhelming realization, I’m no longer participating in any of this, really. The feeling has been coming on for years. I have been noticing it subtly, vaguely even, at first believing it to be age related. I mean old men don’t buy a lot of shit, don’t do a lot of things. They stop caring that much about or attending sports events, movies, concerts or plays. I really don’t buy clothes except to replace worn out socks and underwear with the same brand or whatever brand is in reach. All my other clothes are usually bought second hand, on a useful whim. As for brick-a-brac and the useless shit that seems to be piled withing store front after store front, sometimes I cannot even recognize any of it as anything that even appears to be real… what the fuck is all this shit even for? – Decorations, curiosities… is it all just decoration, adornments?
He slides his cock into the yawning and sloppily lubricated hole that is his transexual girlfriend’s ass. Pumps furiously in what appears to be a wonderful moment of passion but could easily just be another part of the routine. Once again, he cums too quickly. He collapses on top of her and caresses her swollen, but not hard enough penis. He’ll be required to finish her shortly but for now the quiet phase, the heavy panting slows… the mind fog; what is he even doing, why has he found himself in a potentially polyamorous relationship with a man who is convinced he is a woman? Why now, at this late stage in life? Maybe there truly isn’t… really isn’t a valid answer nor anything left worth questioning at all.
Upon discovering this ennui was less than vague aberration that rippled into his “way” from time to time, when he finally realized it was becoming more the norm, his norm. It dawned on him. Although age was definitely in the mix, perhaps the medium that carried this feeling of no longer being involved, in any of this, the catalyst and the actual cause may be the significant changes he had purposefully made through these past, almost two decades now. Talk about your AA induced spiritual awakening, try stopping it all for years on end. Agreeing that it wasn’t the all of it, he knew now that quitting using the cornucopia of recreational drugs, alcohol, tobacco and now all added and refined sugar and chemical additives was “the most of it”. His diet had become biblical, his last attachment to the “consumer world”, buying groceries, was now more a simplified routine of foraging through the junk-piles of boxed bleached-grain garbage and bagged sugary shit that passes for food these days. His trips to the big-box grocery stores included stops bat the fruit and vegetable bins, and the meat fridges; he’d pick up eggs, on occasion yogurt and off he’d go. He stopped even bothering wandering up and down the aisles to ensure he wasn’t missing things. What little salts n’ spices he continued to use he’d purchase on other walks with stops at the Bulk Barn, one of those places with bins and bags of nuts, flours and grains… he’d skip completely the bins full of chocolates and candy; just how many forms does this refined crystal have to be blended into before your realise its all just “sweet”… and dollar for dollar, taste to taste, a bag of frozen blueberries is just a yummy, if not more so. Indeed, time had brought him down this path, but abandoning the worst of what “manufacturing” had to offer, in the way of “things to be consumed” had left him here. No longer needing nor wanting to take part in any of this and, not missing it any bit at all…
Have you ever tried to then rank them, these things you believe to be your rights? Have you tried jotting them down, one to infinity? Go ahead, try it. Where do you start, what are the first second and third “rights” that you feel are indelible, unrecantable, indoobidable? Is making this list not a worthy project?
And what about the obvious conflicts? What happens when two person’s actual equal rights come in conflict of one another? They often do. What then? What approach do you feel we should take? How do we settle the need to negotiate, bargain, mediate and come to agreements? Remember dear Doctor Perky, you have no right that automatically trump any of mine. Homes for the homeless is not a right, it’s simply something we should try to provide. You know, when we have the spare time and resources left over, to be nice.
Perhaps the best approach to these homeless communities now growing as rapidly as the old-shanty towns, the old-time-movie hobo-huts; Now that these fields of pop-up tents; these neighborhoods constructed of draped with plastic groundsheet over old discarded shipping palette, now that these encampments are swelling on the edges of every town and every city; Maybe now is the time to think, “outside the box”. Maybe with the exception of granting a few, new guidelines, provisions that would allow camping in certain areas; maybe we should just let them flourish, police them by enforce existing laws and give up the idea that continuous interventionist ideas, foisted upon these folks by local busy bodies who keep sticking their noses in it has any impact at all. Define a place with proper borders and declare, this is the new wild wild west you’ve been looking for Mr. Fella with Almost Nothing.
If these campers, the new settlers on the fringes of our crumbling cities and society are harassing local real-world residences, have the police investigate, arrest and prosecute these perpetrators as would normally be the case, in any case. Perhaps an added threat to a would-be perpetrator might be the permanent banishment to the city’s now quasi-legal encampments. Attempted theft or assault on some citizen still trying to maintain a foothold in “all that appears to be civilization” could result in one being tagged, told that they can now, formally never return from the encampment, the wild wilds. These homeless, these campers, these settlers of the unsettled territories at the edge of town have no more right to bother their neighbors than you or I.
We’ve gone and pooched our economy our market driven attempt at civilization. As someone how lives a few blocks from one of these encampment and is perhaps two bad decisions from moving there myself. I’m settling for the simple fact, we must do something different than any of the things we’ve done in the past, we have to stop doing or not doing the things that didn’t, have never-ever work. The numbers of occupants of these encampments will only be growing. Get used to these new shanty towns folks. These new Hoovervilles.Get used to your new hobo neighbors. Ultimately allowing all this camping in one place is probably safer for everyone. The campers tend to self police, and the city’s police are more likely to be able to keep the situation in control if they only have to patrol one “tent-city”. I’m not for wasting dollars the city will not have on service levels they cannot sustain if and when this situation worsens.
Let’s be happy if your city can continue to offer even a thin slice of its current services to the homeless. Perhaps the better to-do citizens, paging Ms Perky, maybe Karen Perky should consider donating more to one of the many arm’s length and private organizations that aren’t just pretending to “help the homeless”. Perhaps those ex-urb and suburb dwellers who’ve overfilled their big-box, monster homes could donate the overflow of stuff, shit, bric-a-brac and what not to these new edge-settlers. My guess is the edge settlers could fashion a few “Mall Painting” master pieces into a kind of wall-cover, a way to keep the breeze out of one of these construction-garabe, ill-fitted lumber cabins the more resourceful stitch together.
My rights as a citizen of Kingston aren’t that profound. Through the taxes built-into my rent I pay for some basic services that provide a modicum of hassle reduction and safety. I would hope this system and through the charity of my neighbours, I wouldn’t die on the streets if thing got very bad for me. I’ve very little these days but do continue to donate a little here and a lot less there, as we all should do, independently, without coercion or at the gunpoint which is tax collection backed by law, the enforcers of which are, as you know are armed.
All I’m really asking here... is that we stop saying that any of this, the encampments, the tents, the tarps and shipping palettes are “rights”. Stop getting all weepy and convincing yourself that “some elusive” and imaginary boogie/billionaire businessman has the obligation to pay for these imaginary “rights”. None of the new-edge settlers deserve anything more than what they can muster together with their own pluck n’ ability. Any of their truly so-called “human rights” do not trump mine, nore the billionaire businessman’s. Th right to the property you have paid for is a little more vaild than any right to squat upon said property. AND stop yelling at the government to spend my money through programs it cannot fund... If you can afford it, Doctor and Ms Perky of Kingston, shut up and pitch in. No one will ever stop you from being nice… with your own shit.
If one realizes the goal is to live well, then are we far more likely to live a good life? Life is not the ongoing task of preventing death. On the contrary, sometimes risking death will enhance a well lived life immeasurably. Cheating death is one of life’s sweetest victories. Cowering alone, in the dark for fear that something dreadful might happen, diminishes this life. Following one’s fears and retreating into the safest, most familiar hiding spot is not beating death, it’s simply, not living.
A key to the good life is to let go of the fear of dying as often as one can. Learn as much about death as is possible, the resources are endless. Although one can never know the ultimate truth of death, simply seeking this truth will open most people’s minds, possibly to the one available truth, death, your death specifically does not matter all that much.
I’m neither suggesting you ignore the possibility of your death nor embrace death. Rather, simply give it little thought, no worries. Do not let your fear of death sneak into those moments when you are most enjoying life. Do not let this creep into those moments just prior to sleep when your mind fills with those uncontrolled thoughts. Strive to make your life’s purpose to stay alive so that you can live. Do not strive to live simply so as not to die, as there is not effort one can make to prevent this wonderful end to a very good life.
These posts were a useful source of information, often an exceptionally useful starting point for independent research. The posts led me to some very interesting people to follow. The best of the Q post interpreters all produced solid “newscasts” none promoting despair porn and avoiding the infighting and bickering that at times plagued “the space”. The Q posts and the daily reports from my trusted interpreters became and for the most part remains an integral part of my daily “information collection” regime. Even with the possible end of the posts themselves, the “community” they spawned remains my primary way to attempt to figure all this out.
the·o·ry — /ˈTHirē/ — noun: theory; plural noun: theories, a supposition or a system of ideas intended to explain something, especially one based on general principles independent of the thing to be explained.
The “theory” is the foundation of both the scientific method and critical thinking. One might go as far as to say that a theory was, is and always will be central to the human existence. “My guess is that if we crack the shell off this wooden-like rock, we’ll find food” was at one point, just a theory. Theory is the beginning of all knowledge whether the theory test true or false.
Conspiring is simply the way two or more people “get something done together. I might present a theory that the vast majority of things us humans have done have started with a conspiracy. This speculation rests primarily on my estimate of how little was actually done alone, by one person.
Obviously, this leads to the essential question: Since when is, “I have an theory a couple of people did something” a wrong headed speculation? Isn’t this simply just an idea, a notion to be reviewed, considered, investigated and “believed” or tossed out as ridiculous? How did we let the term “Conspiracy Theory” come to be used in a such a derogatory fashion as to stifle any further consideration? Personally, hearing something described as a conspiracy theory makes me want to look more and more closely.
SUGAR FREE [PART TWO]
…not missing it at all... may have been a bit of an overstatement, a bit bravado. There were definitely things I felt I was missing. I would have probably enjoyed a little more companionship, maybe a few more moments of interaction, conversation than the intermittent coffees clutches with David or William and his weekly get together with my mom and sister. Of course, wanting more is simply a measure of the good things in life.
He dodged another bullet. He found himself less and less a victim of these animal urges. His desire for relatively bizarre and adventurous sexual encounters still “pushed him”, often consumed all of his faculty, became his overwhelming focus, but now, rarely did he follow through to completion. He’d start winning small victory after small victory. Like the drugs booze and eating habits, he was wrestling control while… losing touch.
As I pass people on the street, couples, pairs, people engaged in conversation, I hear snippets of chitter-chatter I find almost unrecognizable. Does anything have any meaning anymore? I haven’t been able to get even ten minutes into a movie these days before realizing the plot is ridiculous and I utterly despise every last single character. Most of these characters being nothing more than cartoon figments born from the imagination of some kid who’s done nothing in life but claim victory in his pursuit of a “career in the movie-biz”. Even old the old movies, my favorites, movies I could easily watch every one or two years seem completely retarded. Whatever did I see in this fiction?
I re-read a book on “the Myths” and was reminded. We’ve been telling and retelling the same damned half a dozen or so same old stories for thousands of years. All born of consciousness to the extent; these stories are our consciousness, no?
The sugar free diet, just as was “quitting” the intoxicants, is quite intoxicating in of itself. I often told folks how quitting booze and drugs was as exciting as starting booze and drugs. Oh those crazed days of youth when stealing a micky full of vodka from the parents liquor cabinet or convincing your friend’s older brother to buy you a six-pack was the thrill of the weekend! The feel of those first fifteen tokes; the heart pounding thrill of honking a line off the toilet tank in that dirty old club with… what’s her name. Not doing coke or drinking booze for even a few weeks can be just as exhilarating. Not doing either for a decade, I hate to break it to you miserable stupid addicts, is even better.
Removing sugar is a twist in all of this. It’s like saying goodbye, thumbing your nose at this oh-so-modern culture of ours. As with quitting drugs and booze, there’s a slowing, that feeling as though you are moving through the streets on a different plane. Like those sequences in “The Flash” comix but instead of achieving invisibility via incredible speeds, no one see’s you as you’re moving that much more slowly, maybe just a little out of sync. You are able to watch all the activity around you with a smidge more intensity, clarity; the conversations reach you a bit more definitely, the actions and gestures of those around you appear to be taking place without any relationship to you what-so-ever. Everything is switched to a kind of hyper realism… and you are now playing absolutely no part in it… at all.
He went online… he watched a few minutes of filth, found an anon and finished off the errant indulgence. He knew it was a habit he’d have to break. He knew he could do it, so why hadn’t he?
If you obey me, I will worship you.
What type of ritual do you prefer? I mean, rather than simply bequeathing equality to women, rather than this parity being a gift, maybe they should have to fight, claw, climb vigorously to obtain these so-called men’s pay rates. Why should we just hand them men’s jobs? Is being the CEO simply a matter of printing the letters C, E and O on a business card? I hear so many women flatly proclaim, I can do anything a man can do. OK, prove it again and again, year after year over and over for an endless string of eighty-hour weeks and, we’ll give you the job.
If this isn’t the prerequisite, what are we left with? What do we end up with other than watered down productivity and a complete abandonment of the notion that the best results are born of merit. If we reduce the weight a firefighter can carry up a flight of stairs to meeting the middling ability of your average women, what have we achieved? If we appoint CEOs based on having an inny or an outy, are we making better companies? What then becomes the hiring mandate of said CEO?
You know and I know that measuring woman against men on any metric is ridiculous. You know deep inside you, right deep into your dangling nuts that women and men are like the handle and head of a hammer. You can no more drive a nail with the handle than you do anything useful at all while gripping it on the head. Like any two-part tool, neither part is any better than the other. If the two parts are found to be of the perfect design and fit for each other… oh the beautiful things that could be built. I can’t even imagine how stupid a person would have to be to attempt at palying one aprt off the other, but… are you this stupid?
When you know no one’s looking grab a rock or a stick or something... you can do this anytime, along the hike, before the hike; heck put a rock in your pocket the night before your head off on the hike. Now, get a conversation going. I like to start talking about snakes or badgers or something even bigger. Maybe tell a tale of the time you were chased by… then, when there’s a pause in your story, a moment when all your hikers are kind of hushed, maybe waiting for the point of your story, toss the stick or stone into the woods beside the people up front.
Make sure to jump along with them when they’re startled and say “what the fuck was that?”... There’s one gal in my family who has suffered through this stunt of mine a hundred times. You’d think she’d start to catch on... she never will. I know why.
The key to the continuous success of this old trick is to do it every last single time. Do it with every person you take a walk withm every time you take a walk with them. There’ll be the odd time they might be waiting for it, if you spot this, throw off yur timing. Eventually they’ll get to the point where they know you’ll never do it again because you’ve done it so many times it’s stupid; this is exactly why you do it again. They’ll be so busy wondering why you keep doing it, they’ll never expect that you’re about to do it again. Then one glorious day, she’ll let her guard down, think that noise in the grass ahead of her was me and my stone or stick, and finally… she’ll be eaten by the wolf.” – This is what’s called love. At least in my neck of the woods.
Nietzsche? C.S. Lewis… ? … I cannot recall but if only… I long for the days when strong men could have tough arguments leading to rough and dangerous moments followed by a slap on the back and a clink and tilting of the glasses. The glory of arguments not won, simply had.
Oh the lesson we learned while fighting the good fight, winning or losing. The words we’d fling, insults even. Crafted from thoughts forged in the fire of our own mental meanderings. Things we had read, things we had heard, things that came to mind over those long stretches of being “with ourselves”; out on a long walk or in the quiet of a sleepless night, neither tossing nor turning but just, quietly… thinking.
“I’ve learned little from the men I most often agree with” and, although I enjoy their company immensely, my conversations with these men seem merely warm ups, practices sessions and sparring matching meant to hone one’s skill prior to climbing into the ring. I love the man who’s fallen to an idea or two of mine, more so if they’ve snuck a few solid jabs into my way of thinking. And never… Never would I leave a man bloodied and down after landing a few solid blows with arms held high, no. That man on the ground is never vanquished if he’s thrown you a good fight. You help him up, give him a hug and look forward to that time he floors you himself.
There is no winner or loser in a life spent wondering and, the only championship ring one should ever truly be proud of is… the world’s most openest mind.
I’ve followed many of these threads myself over the years. I’ve untangling as much of my own beliefs as I’ve been able. However, on these anniversaries, these solemn days of reflection, I vow to put away the politics for the day, and all the intrigue, the bits n’ pieces of this narrative and that and to simply remember the moment, ... the attack on the city... and the good things my then fellow New Yorkers did that day, especially those 343 who are... still doing it.
I behold it as an honored gift to have been so close that day, to have been an eyewitness to… some people doing something. I’ll never know what it must be like to have seen it as only another, thing that happened somewhere else, take place only on whatever screen was before me that day. To have smelled the smoke and seen the unfathomable unfold before my own eyes, to put perhaps bizarrely, a blessing. The experience left me an opportunity; a way to disconnect from the chatter-box arguments over what actually happened and why, a way to simply remember that day as something that happened to me, my city and the people I shared this home of mine with. My city acted well that day. Something to behold, something to be proud of. Indeed, some people did something that day. Some people became the best people they could be; even if only for that… most terrible of days.
How useful would this watch be?
Especially when all your friends and family’s watches were nowhere near as accurate. Every day, all the time, folks would always be arriving to meet you feeling bad about showing up late or showing up early and then having to argue over the accuracy of their own watches, always to lose this argument.
Worse, you’d start to be known as the dickhead who thinks he’s the bee’s knees because he has the watch, the bestest of the best watches, more accurate than your watch or, everyone else’s watch for that matter. Would you hold onto that watch? More so, how can you trust the accuracy of your watch when it so often, always even, fails to agree with anyone else watch? You may have become the one person in everyone’s life who’s always on time, but now, everyone in your life is never on time.
If everyone else around you is always wrong, maybe your watch is actually just… never right, ever.
Is there just as much truth in the absurd? Perhaps all those who are wrong, collectively are happy knowing what they know and as equally baffled by your not knowing.
Why does a child cry? I’ll suggest my guess… they’re something missing.
How many actually got sick? I mean, really really sick. How many were hospitalized? How many fatalities were “from” rather than “with”? It’s been years now and they are still not listing proper statistics alongside every story... our media, or press has turned out to be nothing but a propagandist.
Why weren’t you demanding the whole picture? We found ourselves surrounded by worthless, lazy and utterly unprofessional journalists re-writing articles articles literally dictated to them from government and Big Pharma sources. Articles that focused on the “biggest” numbers that would create the most fear. Numbers that on their own meant very little if not nothing at all. Why was anyone satisfied with a press that did nothing but publish health official press releases? Why didn’t we demand more?
Was the liberty movement just that? Was not the appeal of the “Liberty” people, the America First folks a call for the notion that we could all live together in one place respecting each other’s right to do their own shit? I’ve never really cared how another man lives his life. I may comment on other lifestyles from time to time. I might describe different cultures as “less” even inferior, these aren’t judgements against “the norm” they are simply judgements against my own preferences. We are allowed have personal preferences; we are allowed to hold prejudices. We are also allowed judge, rank, rate and express options on others both negative and positive opinons.
I can tell someone I’d like them to “do this”. It’s probably better if I ask them nicely and present a persuasive argument on how it might benefit them or the both of us. I can tell someone that I disagree with what they are doing, how they are doing something or what they are saying… I can even tell someone I think they are an idiot and putting our community at risk. If I expect them to change or alter this behavior based on my comments, I’m likely being an idiot. If I physically force or coerce them in any fashion, I am being a criminal and deserve to be punished. For the most part, I can leave my opinions to myself. In as many cases as my opinions are correct, I’m as equally apt to be wrong or at least not completely right.
Two definitions to hold on to… one should clearly know the difference between…
A Hoax: a humorous or malicious deception.
A Farce: an absurd event.
If you Judge this debate within the context of my era, the age of “Television Media” TV News, you’ll simply end up making a complete fool of yourself. Do you even know what the golden age of television is/was? If you’re old enough to still be looking out for the mythical 1950s Television-Dad style Presidentialism, why would you still be looking for this? It’s a proven myth, it never existed. The Presidential Debates of the 21st Century, so far appear to be closer to the way politics really are than they have been for year. A raw brawl for real power unfortunately moderated by those who’s control over the channels” is far too great. The channels through which we are fed the information we need are yet too controlled by forces who’s only interest served are their own.
Although the current politic is presented as such, it is not sport. There doesn’t have to be a winner or loser. Cheering for the Blue Jersey over the Red Jersey is childish; aligning yourself specifically, measurably parallelly with any one, either of the two or three platforms presented by our current political parties is utterly ridiculous. Seeking all the information you need to make rational decisions and form even the most basic of opinions from one single source, is lazy. If that source is Television, you are an idiot. Television can no longer handle how the politics are delivered. Television is over.
The 24, 48 and 72 Hour Rules
Given the assortment of media sources one must tap into to shape one’s own truth, and given how each of these sources seem hell bent on drawing first conclusions; and given how first conclusions are often not the best given there will always be new information; I’m suggesting a series of “rules” to help one auger their reaction to “The News of the Day”. I rarely comment on anything I’ve heard within the first 24 hours of hearing it. Obviously if that news is expressing an actual physical danger, I’ll immediately prepare for action and take such as I personally see fit. The 48 and 72 hour rules basically express the time I feel is needed for a story, a narrative or for all the “after-shock” tremors to play out enough to form an actual opion on what just happened. In actuality, it’s long after 72 hours before I’ll ever settle on an opinion… there is no certainty, reality itself is now in the crosshairs…
“If You Like Subpoena Colada’s, And Getting Caught In Ukraine”
...as for insults. Unless you’re insulting your best friend, your brother or your son, insulting people you don’t know, public figures et al, is really just part of civilized, pleasant even, adult like conversation. Being insulted by your best friend, bother or father, damn that’s just how one learns. As an older man who, has collected maybe a tiny portion of wisdom, I will leave you with this bit… grow up and take it like a man.
SUGAR FREE [PART THREE]
Have I just lost my way? I’m left wondering how many of us out here have been left unpinned and just wandering about in this completely alien landscape. Nothing is what it was even a decade ago. Those standard issue ideas we all formed in the late sixties, seventies and eighties have all been washed away, scrubbed even. Who are we? What have we become in this age were nothing seems to really even stick for for than a moment; fleeting moments washing over us like ripple on the back of a tidal wave. We are floating on the top of a tsunami that is wiping clean from this earth this civilization all we learned to recognize as our valid expectations.
Am I meant to be even more afraid?
I was told long ago that the folks “over their” had their missiles pointed at us. This seemed fair given my understanding of where our missiles were pointed. I learned my first lessons in the context of a war we didn’t want to have happen, the one that never did happen… at least not as we were led to believe it would. Total annihilation, the destruction of not only our civilization but, our species the whole planet even. Looking back that seems not so little a fear for a boy of 15 to make sense of. I’ve almost forgotten how that fear felt, what I did to assuage it, how I got over it and, whether or not I felt any relief when as a young man, the politics shifted enough to no longer maintain it. I only remember, being afraid of Nuclear Annihilation at the hands of… them.
Since then, it has been a cornucopia of fears. Environmental collapse, terrorism, drug addiction, the decay of morality, the iron fist of moral injustice, the left, the right, the left, right left, marching as fast as we can from one fear to the next. Every political decision became “what do we do to avoid this thing we fear” rather than how can we alter our course to make this wonderful world, even better.
He was no longer in love with anyone (other than his son and his family). He felt no longer built to maintain any form of intimate relationship with another women or man even. He hadn’t given up. He just no longer had any interest what-so-ever. I don’t think he would even recognize an expression of interest projected in his direction. He sometimes pined for a cuddle a touch, something more than a snippet of conversation but it wouldn’t last. He was slowly and easily slipping into a routine where he spent the vast majority of his time completely alone…
Right-Wing Populists = Future Immune Superheroes!
While all the soy-boy’d cuckly-cucked lefty-leaning leaders like, say, Trudeau or Macron etc. were still hiding under their beds, shivering in fear, those who risked the 99.98% survivability rate would now be out there, running and ruling the world. Or, so we thought, hoped even.
BALLS OF MOLTEN STEEL... baby!
In the end none of it mattered. They all got it. Everyone got it, the vast majority survived it. Almost no political leaders died from it or even came close. It was almost as if they had made the whole thing up. In many ways it’s easy to believe it was all just a hoax, a ruse by these “leaders” to foist upon us all an even tighter control grid. Do ya think? …maybe?
These pathetic idiots seem to be hell-bent on changing the names on every school, every street, every park and every place that maybe once meant something… to someone… once. What do these name changes accomplish? Do they erase the so-called atrocities of the past? Do the new mostly generic names portend to a brighter future? This practice seems to be nothing more than a shot at the older folks who are the only one’s who’ll remember that original names any way. Once these folks are gone, what will the next bunch of kids be left with? Certainly, no buildings who’s names they could so righteously change.
Maybe this next bunch of kids will charge themselves with the responsibility to re-name all these generically named places? Perhaps the little kids of today can be instilled with a feeling of responsibility to re-honor the great men of the past by putting all the old names back. Maybe after I’m long gone, that idiot kid who’s pissing me off by childishly tarnishing what I see as a fabulous history will themselves have to live through their own personal horror as all my grandchildren say “fuck you” and re-name the Queen’s Law Building Sir john A. Macdonald Hall, or… maybe they’ll just call it Kanye West Place.
There are some who believe that you, yes you are nothing more than animated Hamburger meat.
I’ll make this prediction. Your trip down the road will be a bit of everything. Some days you’ll be having the time of your life and the scenery will appear to race on by; other days will be dreadful and you’ll wonder what cursed fate brought you to this place. After a few times arriving at the latter part in this road you’ll begin to realize, it all looks pretty much the same in the rear-view mirror. Past good days and bad will seem to blend into one big ol’ good time. You are indeed not just animated hamburger meat… what you are is…
It looks like the good ol’ USA is in another intense conflict, maybe the worst since... (too early to tell) ...Luckily, unlike shithole countries The United States of America a nation ruled by law, right? Laws that should prevent these conflicts from going kinetic, but who knows. I’m sure there’ll be more crowds on the streets at some point...
It's important to have laws, have your rules written down early in the game. When the shit does hit the fan, and it will… when the bugaloo is upon you It’s important to know, not only what rules to follow but, what rules you’ll be breaking as you sally-forth to win this part of the game. You will be left with one man standing in the end, only by knowing the rules beforehand will you ever know if he’s the good man or…
Fetishize: have an excessive and irrational commitment to or obsession with something.
Understanding the difference between a hoax and a farce, might just save a life, or two... one day. One day if (when) they try this bloody nonsense ever again.
SUGAR FREE [PART FOUR]
As I walked up Princess this morning, our little high street, our downtown, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, while passing one of our more TONY bistros, a woman, alone at one of those big tables with twelve chairs, those tables it’s now trendy to share with strangers. She was alone, I caught this image for a mere moment. There she sat, alone at a big table wearing a nice hat, a white toque, with a pom-pom. She sat there alone sawing through an extremely over complicated bistro breakfast, likely some version of some eggs benedict concoction. Pouched eggs on an English muffin with some kind of sauce and too much arugula… Catching the glimpse of her, sawing away, by herself, at this big table I couldn’t help from feeling even more detached than normal, at least what’s passing for normal these days.
I’ve enjoyed countless nice breakfasts and brunches at hundreds of TONY bistros. I used to love breakfast out as they were the most reasonably priced meals of the day. To be honest though, I likely preferred the diner breakfast. You know, easy peasy, eggs, sausage potatoe and toast… and a bucket of coffee later. Maybe I read the, maybe me and a pal attempted to solve all the world’s problems again or maybe… kicking off the day’s business with a meeting over easy.
Suddenly though, maybe it was the hat, maybe it was her being alone at a huge table, sawing away with what appeared, at least for that moment I saw her, with no joy, no enthusiasm, no interest and a plate cover in too much tangled and overly complicated swirls of arugula, but… this mad no sense to me. Again, this detachment, this separation from everything. I seem to have arrived at a moment in life where none of this means anything or matters at all. I could never have another breakfast out and I’d not miss it or, I could have a great time having a breakfast with a friend tomorrow. Neither matter. It’s all just a show, a play, one of those poorly written movies you turn off after the first act realizing you don’t give a shit, one flying fuck about any of the characters; in other words, every movie I’ve started watching in the last five years… garbage. All of it, meaningless, pointless garbage.
I was left wondering as I wandered the rest of the way home… Is it just me or has everything just become that dull and uninteresting? Maybe nothing has been all that interesting ever. Could I have been fooling myself all along? Even these questions seem pedestrian, stupid and without any real purpose.
He seemed to be drifting, or was it simply floating, silently, motionlessly. There was no real direction to any of this. He was here, but not here. He participated but neither felt the need to nor that there would be any difference if he stopped participating. He was no more sad about this than he was happy about anything. He was still waking each morning to a feeling of absolute dread. He was still able to shake this feeling within five to ten minutes of his exercise routine. To say he had become a ghost would be dramatic. He just simply felt he was no longer a part… of any of this nonsense.
Out of curiosity, I follow many current scientific arguments. I also enjoy learning of the discoveries we’ve made through the scientific process over history. I adore questioning these discoveries just as much as I adore learning why the current interpretations are considered correct. I’ve spent much of these past years exploring alternative arguments to evolutionary science, astronomical science and the grand dad of science, the philosophies.
I’ve submerged myself into dozens of books on quantum mechanics and the continued speculation surrounding the confounding “new dark” sciences, dark energy, dark matter. Writings and reports on quantum field mechanics, quantum gravity n’ such are like candy to me. I’m really enjoying the works of Carlo Rovelo, described as the “Poet Laureate of quantum gravity and time”. I’ve been gobbling up dozens more books on genetics, cultural evolution, behavioural and political sciences in an gloriously awkward attempt to, among other things, formulate a ridiculously ferocious argument on... the conditions we’re in and am madly trying to form my own opinion on human consciousness.
I kinda, sorta understand the basic concepts behind vaccination science. The whole notion of introducing a harmless “dead” variant of a virus into our “system” in order to trick our bodies into creating matching antibodies to fight it, this makes perfect sense to me. I’ll admit I don’t fully understand the technology and engineering behind the “suspension materials” nor the effects of chemical compounds that are used to physically deliver these “dead variants” into our system. I’ve read reports that leave me concerned that some preservatives and other “secondary” ingredients used in “classic” vaccine technology are worrisome.
Alongside these ‘secondary’ elements used in current vaccines how could one not question vaccine technologies that more and more rely on a genetic level delivery mechanism? Can we even call these new medical procedures that deliver codes to our cells that instruct them to create mimics of the virus so that other cells then create antibodies vaccines? The fact that they are selling what is essentially genetic therapy as a vaccine, why wouldn’t one have some suspicions? I mean really, who’s not even just a little suspicious of say, genetically mutated groceries?
I feel no loyalty towards, nor the need to put unwarranted faith in our Universities, their laboratories or the nameless cabal of scientists who conduct the work and research into the medicinal applications of vaccine science. Quite the opposite in fact watching these centres of higher learning spiralling into nothing more than union run indoctrination centres, feeding off the government tit and dipping into the public till. I mean… really.
I’m grateful for the past efforts and do enjoy the fruits of the painstaking efforts of many of these institutions but why would I blindly trust anyone soley on the basis of past results? Especially when I know these past results were as equally failed as they have been successful. Scientific research is, as discussed, by nature a, what have you done for me lately endeavor.
Why put blind trust is a professor I don’t know intimately but do know is motivated, driven even by the securing of peer allocated funding for the perpetuation of his research job? Isn’t the dolling out of government funding by peer review just a grand circle jerk? Institutionalized scientific research funding is nothing more than a group of scientists deciding who in their group to give funding to today, knowing they’ll be the same peer group deciding who gets the next round of funding tomorrow.
Consistent with these suspicions, why would I ever invest my most precious resource, my trust in the Pharmaceutical Industry? Even as an ardent traditional capitalist myself, one who is obviously and completely satisfied that all the “wonders of the world” do ultimately come from one “industry” or another I see no need to apply the concept of trust to these companies. Even as a firm believer that the market is the fundamental driver of all progress, trust is really not a commodity I feel the need to invest in an “industry”. I particularly see no upside to placing this trust in an industry that has proven over and over again that it will always put profit against performance and has historically obfuscated its own research and lied outright to turn a buck.
Before any product gets my positive attention, the FABs must be well defined. When considering the features, attributes and benefits of any product, let alone a product I’m going to injecting into my veins, mixing with my blood and permanently integrating into my very being is at issue, the company producing a selling this product better have an extremely well-defined benefit to risk equation laid out before me. Benefit being the keyword in this equation. Science is less something to be trusted, far more something to be measured. The mechanism through which I measure a product is through a calculation of risk vs benefit... with a healthy dose of, what’s this going to cost me both in monetary and non-monetary terms.
We were asked to “calculate the risk”. of injecting a hurried medication that was being sold as a “vaccine” even though it was really a gene therapy. The marketers of this medication claimed that this genetic treatment purportedly stifled the transmission of the virus thus reducing the chances of my contracting the illness or giving it to someone else if I did catch it. An illness that statistically, given my age, I had a 99% chance of surviving.
It seemed to me at the time, given all the calculations I was able to make; when I measured the benefits of the so-called, misnamed COVID vaccine, my survivability was the the least of my concerns. Before it ever became “my turn” to take the medication, the story they were flogging had already changed from their “vaccine” preventing transmission to simply, it increasing the aforementioned survivability rate. A rate my calculations easily resulted in my have absolutely no fear of succumbing to the disease.
The drumbeat from the media began to sound more and more that the benefits would be measured not in efficacy but rather in “social acceptance”, a measure by which I would be allowed to participate in society. I can’t remember how long I considered taking or not taking this medication, whether the decision to a whole second or an almost immeasurably short fraction of this second. When the story changed again from “you should take the medication to protect yourself” to “you must take the medication to continue participating in society” I immediately knew that decision was sound. When they attempted to glom a Chinese Communist Party Social Scoring system on the back of the medication through these vaccine passports, I knew we were in for a fight, a fight that continues to this day.
I’ve apportioned a great deal of trust over the years. I’ve also earned a little and probably misspent far too much more than I’ve deserved. I naturally default to trusting my fellow man, including a few of these wretched “scientists”. I’ve misplaced as much trust in lovers as I’ve placed correctly, and I’ve reaped the rewards of putting trust in a solid circle of friends. We are bread to trust kin, our families and through a form of reciprocal altruism have grown our circles of trust into great societies! So just stop this nonsensical call to “trust the science”. Stop childishly hiding what you’re really after. You and I both know, in the end, it’s not the science you’re asking me to trust... you’re asking me to put my trust in you…
Which, when you make a good case, I usually do.
On October 15th, 2020 “Big” tech showed us just how small they were.
In the longer term, in the battle between propaganda and “truth”, truth may be the ‘long play’, but it is the better bet. — If you honestly believe there was an attempt to “bring down” the American government one afternoon, enjoy your narrative if it gives you comfort, I do the same. It’s what we all do and that’s why these puppet shows work I guess. As it has done so over all the eons, the history of these events will shift and wiggle from here to there depending on who’s in “power of the pen”. Your interpretation of events may never change but the telling of this history will.
Already what really happened on January 6th 2020 is no longer as important as the events that have sprung from the telling of what happened. In this case two distinct “tellings”. What I’m noticing now, well past two years after the day. The quick and shiny story that was used to shape the following few days leading up to the inauguration is fading fast. The truth, as I perceive it is beginning to emerge from the cacophony that was the endless propaganda. Of course, this may simply be optimism on my part and I will never know the final story in the end. We remain a long way from determining the winner who will earn the right to write this story’s final version.
“Consuming” on its most basic level, is what you, all your friends and all your family do. Primarily we all consume “stuff” in order to continue to live and thrive. Of course, the concept of consumption can also be fitted to describe those activities we need to enact to be comfortable, to be happy, to provide for our loved ones. Consumption at its core interpretation is not a negative, it is a necessity.
We gain access to these things we need and/or want to consume through various “channels”; the electrical outlet on your wall is a channel from which we consume the electricity that drives all these devices. The grocery store is the channel through which comes most of our food; the tap, the stage of a theatre, a book likewise are all channels of consumption. These outlets from which we consume that which we need to thrive are themselves fed by an intricate freeway, a system of interlocking distribution channels. Many of these channels are owned and are the domain of for profit businesses, some, say a stream or the ocean from which we fish are natural but, they all have some form of impediment that can potentially stymy the flow of the items we need from time to time.
The act of Marketing and those who are employed as Marketing and Sales professionals in many ways are tasked with removing impediments in these channels or simplifying access to the outlets of consumption. These folks make it easier for your friends and family members to find and gain access to the thing they’d like to consume. Some marketing and salespeople are good and will point the consumer in the direction of things that have a positive impact on one’s ability to thrive; other sales people are not so good and will steer you towards things that impede your thriving while helping themselves to thrive. This trait is not reserved for marketers and salespeople. Producers themselves, those who feed the channels, will often make items, food, music, books that are just as harmful and they will find marketing and salespeople that will help them get these bad products around the impediments in the channels they use to reach your friends and family.
Some consumers are cockroaches, some producers are assholes. Some marketers dedicate their lives to serving assholes to get shitty products past the impediments and into the hands of cockroaches. You might think, if there were no Assholes and Marketers, there’d be no cockroaches. There will always be cockroaches, there will always be assholes and there will always be marketers to assist the assholes getting their product to the cockroaches.
Change the channel.
I don’t know why I felt the uncontrollable need to comment upon Ms. Klein’s quote here… Maybe it’s because I was once a marketer myself, for years. I respect you as a consumer and really don’t like seeing our friends and family, the consumers we know and love, called cockroaches… they’re just doing what they do. What they need to do and want to do.
It’s never the noises that kill us. Death comes in the silence. The stifling of the new idea, the rabid arguments of the old. Those who believe that quashing voices is the noble cause, they so often, so stupidly truly believe in their own good intentions. They long for the safety of the quiet, the fool’s peace, the quiet room, becomes their cell, its doors locked... their refuge becoming their own…the noiseless coffin.
No bad idea was ever beaten back by silence, no good comes from the suppression of a noise, even if just, a whisper. On the contrary the only true test of a good idea is whether it can rise above the cacophony of bad. The only way to find great ideas is to disentangle them from the horrid. Once again, the only way to counter mis and disinformation is... with more information.
It’s not that people are not seeing the ever-oncoming clampdown, it’s that they are themselves crying out for it. Begging for the comfort of the tyranny of silence, always seeking the simplest of answers. Believing that the silencing of voices they’d rather not hear will save them. Problem, reaction, solution, Hegel with a side of Machiavelli... because, if my brother’s not for me, he’s against me. The simplest of equations: Promise to save someone from their greatest fears and they’ll put their very lives into the palm of your hand.
So what of the “banned tweets”, the men tweets sent from the account of America’s 45th President? I’m sure the Library of Congress will have these available as they are, for the most part, the property of the American people and legal documentation of this Presidency. Likely more an issue for some scholarly legal wonk, but it would seem to me that Twitter’s petty, high-school girl like snitty little action to ban a sitting world leader, the most powerful leader in the world was less an afront to Donald Trump, and more a criminal act against the American people. By censuring a President they are denying the citizens of the US access to the Office of the Presidency. I’m assuming someone will pick this up as a doctorate thesis someday, it will make for an interesting read for sure.
History and current affairs are fucking cool if you’re able to stop whining like an infant and wrapping yourself in your wretched, self-absorbed... “feel feels”… History and current affairs should never be left to the fearful.
It was a hunch. And, maybe if you’d get over yourself, tone done the arrogance for a minute or two, you might start picking up on your own there, buddy. Yes, it really is that simple. Stop believing that you can calculate your way to being 100% right all the time. First off, it’s not a high school exam, the mark doesn’t matter. Secondly, no one has ever scored perfect and, most importantly often, the best answers lay in that quiet part of your mind. That place you have little if any control over. Some call it the sub-conscious, I prefer to call it the meta-conscious. That part of us that is way, way beyond us or that which you think is you. A field of information that can only be tapped into in one’s stillness, those unthinking moments when you perhaps stop trying to maintain the contiguous entity that is you, your ego, the entity you believe exists, has form… a beginning and an end.
I’m not talking about some “eastern flower-power” or hippy-dippy spiritual program, religion or faddish cult. I’m talking about the state we’re all familiar with but have absolutely no means nor ability to describe. That place where, when your mind takes you to it, you just know you are there and good things simply begin to pop forward; when your thoughts are clear and the answers seem easily at your disposal.
How did I know not to follow the science? How did I know I was being played? How did I know I would be better off in the long run? Sure, I could revise my own history, pound my chest, stand up straighter and spout off about researching this, reading that, watching this, noticing such n’ such patterns of behavior, all of which played a part but… (and the real answer always follows the but) …it was indeed a hunch. I took a break from reading, researching, from the cacophony. I managed to find that instance, that imperceptible moment of quiet, away from myself and played the hunch. Some perceive this as receiving guidance from God or a higher power. They’re really not wrong to believe this, at all.
He stumbles out the door, shakes his fist and babbles something he thinks is clever in an attempt to regain a little dignity and heads off towards a bar closer to home that might likely, if he plays it right, float him a few more double Jacks. As he shuffles off all grumpy and dying for another drink, he’s startled when he stubs his toe on… and realizes he just kicked something a few feet down the pavement. At first he thought it was some old tin can as clanked metallically down the sidewalk. When he caught up with it, picked it up, studied it a bit he eventually recognized it an old lamp, one of those old timey brass oil lamps that look like a way to small and fancy jug you might use to water flowers. He gave it a wipe to see if there might be something etched on it... of course, out pops a genie.
“Let’s have those three wishes” barks the genie...
Our drunk pal is at first a bit put off by this fuckhead of a genie’s attitude and barks back; give me a Jack n Coke ya big blue bastard! — The barten… um, the Genie hands him the drink and says, all deadpan and mostly annoyed… you’ve two more wishes.
As the guy takes, in an odd moment of semi-clarity, he realizes the enormity of his situation... He’s seen enough Genie movies to snap himself into a somewhat more coherent state. He realizes his initial error and tries to steady himself. He knows he has to get the next two wishes right… think… he lets his thoughts go for a moment and asks, slowly and in a very measured tone “…can you give me a bottle of Jack that never gets empty, is full all the time?”
The genie hands him the bottle, rolls his eyes and calmly almost sarcastically adds, “…your wish is my command.”
The old drunk, takes a tiny little swig. After witch, he rights the bottle, takes a good hard look at it, and quickly can see, it’s the same, it’s still full, right up to that point on the neck of the bottle, just as he wished. He takes another swig, it’s still full... he takes another and another, he laughs and smiles, he looks up at the Big Blue Genie in disbelief and cries out… “ya beautiful bastard, the bottle is still full!!!”
By this point, The genies getting a bit annoyed himself, pissed off even. He barks out again... “I need that third wish you drunken fool. I’ve got better things to do.”
With barely a hint of hesitation, the drunk starts to speak, pauses, takes another swig, looks at the still full bottle, smiles, looks at the genie then back at the bottle and cries out in glee...
“I’ll take another one of these!”
Eventually the bartender wanders down to his end of the bar and is about to say something about the frog, probably ask the Jew to put it away or take it outside when…
“…ya wanna see something nifty?” asked the old Hasidic Jew in the hat. You know Hat, white shirt, the lock of hair by his ear… white shirt, long coat, balck pants n’ hard shoes…
The bartender nods grudgingly, sure. The old Jew smiles as the frog on his shoulder ask the bartender, “can you get me a Pilsner mate?”
Needless to say, the bartender was put back a bit. Quite a bit. A little bewildered he asks, “what just happened he’re?” The frog asks again, a little more firmly “can you get me a Pilsner mate?”
Shocked, a bit stuned but mostly amazed the bartender waves for the folks at the other end of the bar to come over, “get a load of this frog guys, have a look at what it can say here…” He asks the Jew, “…can it do it again?”
The frog say sternly, subtly registering his growing annoyance with the bartender seeming to ignore his drink request, “can you get me that Pilsner mate?”...
The small gathering of patrons let out a collective gasps, they’re immediately in awe... The bartender asks the Jewish fella, “…so where did you find it, where’d ya get that thing?
The frog replies “over the Williamsburg Bridge, you know Brooklyn, by the East River, the place is crawling with ‘em.”
It’s with this notion in mind that I finally got around to reading a bit of Descartes who, reminds me that learning not only provides us information needed to escape the orbit of god, but also lends itself to the understanding that the inevitable regression towards god is not infinite and that what’s learned as one spirals towards god himself... is more than just god...
As I trudge this path from realism through materialism and onward into a more dualistic understanding of things, I am starting to realize that nothing, ok, very little is outside the realm of possibility. I don’t pin this entirely on Descartes. I’ve learned not to blame our philosophers but rather blame us interpreters. There’s little point in getting angry with say, Foucault or Derrida there is however ample justification in being really pissed off with those who turned their nonsense into “Critical Theory” … Now we’re getting somewhere.
One has little control over the order in which they stumble across their sum total of life’s learning. Oh sure there will be the more regimented moments, say during the school years but, even then, the myriad of things learned after class, when hanging with one’s buds will have an impact on those lessons far greater than one could ever know. As important as this order is one’s dedication to learning itself and more importantly the realization that you don’t know everything; the admission that you know very little, almost nothing and… even then… What you do believe you know, could just as eaily all be wrong. As some wise man said, who, I’ll never know for certain…
Belief is [indeed] the enemy of knowing.
As once said by a man smarter than myself, “I have learned very little from men I agree with completely.” How is one to develop a sound way of thinking while being denied access to concepts he finds appalling? How controlling is it for one to believe that they know what’s best, what thoughts and information is salient, worthy enough to integrate into my patterns of thinking. I want to hear it all. I have the right to hear it all. I have the agency to sort good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff. If you believe yourself better able to filter my input, away with you, you disgusting, arrogant simpleton.
I will listen to anyone; I will consider everything. The more I know, the better decisions I can make, the better ideas I will form. When the fool speaks hateful garbage from the rooftops, it allows me to identify who the fools are, and as is almost always the case provides the munitions I need to counter his arguments. How can one challenge so-called hurtful and hateful perhaps bigoted commentary if one is denied the opportunity to hear it for themselves. One of the beauties of letting all speak, is to learn who is who, who to avoid, who to follow for a time.
Ultimately, who the fuck are you to decide who I decide is worthy, unworthy, hilariously wrong or surprisingly right? Who are you to swoop in on your virtuous chariot of goodness and make decisions for me? Who are you to decide what is safe for my children and what gives you the authority. What makes you think I’m not able to point my children away from charlatans (such as yourself) and towards, the good. This freedom to speak, this free-flowing public square of chit-chatter, this LAW that every man must be given his say has far less to do with the man saying these things than you or I, the men who need and have the right to hear any damned thing said.
On this day, my now ex-wife was walking through the tunnel with my little boy. He was probably just three, maybe four. Midway through the tunnel there was a deranged fella going on about Jesus. His crying out “Praise Jesus!” “Jesus saved me!”… “Oh how I love Jesus!”...echoed through the passageway.
My son’s mother, being a tough as nails Roman and a thoroughly experienced New Yorker by this time in her life, would likely have not worried one bit, but likely steeled herself all the same, as any experienced New Yorkers would when faced with one of the deranged people we’d come across daily, in that loveable shithole of a great big city. She likely held my son’s hand a little tighter as they walked towards this fella, approaching the middle of the tunnel.
As she tells it, my son was a bit amused by the guy and his going on and on about how he “Praised Jesus!”, how “Jesus saved me!”…and just how much, “I love Jesus!”... My son stared at him, he likely turned and looked up at his mom for assurance as they passed him in the tunnel. He looked back at the deranged man a few times as they passed him by, as his ramblings echoed... “Praise Jesus!” “Jesus saved me!”… “Oh how I love Jesus!”
As they got to the end the tunnel. My son looked back at the man, looked up at his mom, looked back at the fella and said to his mom, “...mom, that man really likes cheeses” — yes my son, I mean indeed, the guy really seemed to have like cheeses...
In far too many ways, this dream of mine, this dream of Jim was a way too obvious a dream. Given our history, my current reading list, and recent conversations with other chums, it was probably the most likely of dreams to be dreamt last night. I’m giving it the title, “My Dream of Jim, Kingston’s Own Man in A Barrel”. Remember, it’s a dream, not a play, even if it were and it was, a dream about Jim and a play. Note to the outsider, Jim is a theatre guy. I mean a top notch well known theatre guy… To call him a playwrite, a director, a producer a company leader would not do his role in Canadian theatre justice… Jim IS a theatre guy.
It was that kind of dream where one keeps you waking up to through the night, fading back to sleep and still having the same dream; sometimes adding half woken elements to it... sometimes just chuckling, other times frustrated that the woken elements hadn’t made as significant an impact on the following “asleep” segments of the dream. One of those intense, unshakable, no shaking your way out of this one type dreams.
The primary sleeping elements of this dream was Jim and I yelling at each other, arguing over something. The setting shifted from the Manse, the old house behind Saint Andrews Church, where I worked for Jim for a while to various locations along Princess Street. I just assumed; in a dreamy fashion or yelling at each other, this argument was theatre related... The fact that our friends, actors that were also in Jim’s employ at the Manse, Jesse and Paul had small cameos in this dream, confirmed the argument was likely about some play.
The gist of this dream play was Jim’s opus portrayal of Sir John A. MacDonald. Apparently this play, this portrayal took place in a storefront along Princess Street and was meant to run for the rest of Jim’s life, if not the rest of eternity. I’m certain Jim wrote the play, I’m not sure if he was meant to play the part of Sir John naked or whether the script included you taking a shit “on stage” ... let’s assume there was a lot ad lib on Jim’s part, not too far out of character… I recall the play including a lot farting, loud talking, yelling even. Looking back, I think Jim would have been very good casting in the role of someone like, say Diogenes… maybe.
The waking elements of the dream, rather those semi-lucid moments included more “tactile events”... things that have happened around town such as the stripping of Sir John’s name off the Queen’s Law Building which followed so obviously along during this continuously childlike times when we seem to leap at the opportunity to placate everyone by un-naming everything. Our City Council’s seems to constantly in utterly boring fashion to endlessly pander to the indigenous community; believing their own pompous belief that the role of council goes at all beyond the fixing of potholes and initiatives to bring new businesses to town... It would appear that Mary-Rita, a mutual friend of Jim and mine’s, who also worked at the Manse and now sits on council was given an offstage role in our little dream-play.
As adults... we both know that dreams don’t play out like plays. There’s rarely a third act to rap up the tangled ends. I finally woke to the impression that it was a great dream, a good play, well received and reviewed. It did play in one of Kingston’s many a closed storefronts with you in the leading role for eternity... our friendship remained intact and...in the end, it must have been a very good argument indeed! – I don’t think I truly thanked Jim for being such a huge catalyst in my settling here in Kingston... it’s been a pleasure and an honour and... if that note did reach a ghost, damn I’ll be pissed off!
The Wiser Man’s Enemy
The wiser man leaves room, a space for his opponent to find an opportunity to argue, negotiate even. The lesser man, the stupid, or perhaps even the desperate and dangerous man leaves his enemy no quarter, no options but to attack.
What option have "we" left Mr. Putin? Really?
Um, stop and steady yourself, just for a moment; ask yourself, you don’t think that Venezuela wanted Swedish Socialism too?
There’s a case being tried in New Mexico… eventually though, regardless of where you are, YOU WILL BE TOLD... YOU CANNOT WORK unless take this medication. You will be denied the freedom of travel and mobility. You will be denied any number of basic services. It will involve the collusion of players in multiple industries and will employ coercion rather than legislation to force you to comply. This coercion although being quietly administered by industrial and government agencies will be acted upon you directly by your coworkers, your neighbours, your friends, and your family...
For the second time in merely a few months, I was to be blessed with the opportunity to watch the glorious pageantry government manipulation unfold before my very eyes as good friends screamed and screeched their opinions at one another. It was desperately sad watching dear friends let fear get the best of them, abandon their well-tuned critical thinking abilities and become agents of the state. Bit players in yet another horrendous piece of philosophical theatre.
Oh most certainly I was to be swept up and into it. My own opinions and passions could have only led to me “speakinmg my mind”, bruise more than a few feelings and break a few bonds with a few of a few remaining good ol’ friends...
Hopefully I never claimed to be in above anyone, or beyond all or any of this but, you may have noticed, I am a bit of a “voyeur” when it comes to these passion plays. These theatrics that seem to be endlessly rolling down the “Appian Way” day after day, after day. The voyeur side of me always seems to cry out, bring it on! – Let ‘er rip! Most times when faced with a moment like this, I can’t wait to watch the shit as it hits the...
It’s times like this one that test what we have become; as friends, as a people as a society. What has our so called “civilization” evolved into? Have we really learned any of the lessons of the past, or will we simply slip into old behaviours. Will we always let the masses run the joint, let the mob rule? Will we always let ourselves fall far too easily in with this mob? Will we always find it far more easy to just go along to get along with ? Will we be so easily convinced to simply trample the remaining glimmer of hope out of each n’ all of the last remaining individuals, the last fading embers of the fire’s mankind lit over these these last thousand years or so?
Hopefully it’s obvious, I was only, once again, rooting for our better natures. I felt we were, once again, having the time of our lives and that our lives simply depended on it. In the end, I hope you’ve drawn a more positive conclusion now that this chapter, this period, quarter or play appears to be essentially behind us and… remember, that ndespite having been divided onto different so many teams... we were all always on the same side of this grand (non zero sum) game being played upon us, this grand chessboard. AND, despite being put on, our choosing to join these separate teams we were never not in pursuit of the same ends, you and I and that ultimately, we should always remember, neither of us are the better and there is never shame in changing sides as new information comes our way.
This fucking game, it never ever ends…
I don't carry a gun to kill people; I carry a gun to keep from being killed,
I don't carry a gun because I'm evil; I carry a gun because I have lived long enough to see many of the evils in the World and, they can get pretty bad. I don't carry a gun because I hate the government; I carry a gun because I understand the limitations of government. I don't carry a gun because I'm angry; I carry a gun so that I don't have to spend the rest of my life hating myself for failing to be prepared. I don't carry a gun because I want to shoot someone; I carry a gun because I want to die at a ripe old age in my bed and not on a sidewalk somewhere tomorrow afternoon.
I don't carry a gun to make me feel like a man; I carry a gun because men know how to take care of themselves and their loved ones. I don't carry a gun because I feel inadequate; I carry a gun because unarmed and facing three armed thugs, I am inadequately prepared. I don't carry a gun because I love it; I carry a gun because I love life and the people who make it meaningful to me.
Police protection is an oxymoron: Free citizens must protect themselves because the police are not here to protect us from crime; they are here to investigate the crime after it happens. We call them when we need someone to clean up the mess. Personally, I carry a gun because I'm too young to die and too old to take a whoopin'!
A LITTLE GUN HISTORY – PLEASE DON'T THINK FOR A MOMENT, THAT THIS COULDN'T HAPPEN IN YOUR COUNTRY.
In 1911, Turkey established gun control: From 1915 to 1917, 1.5 million Armenians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
In 1929, the Soviet Union established gun control: From 1929 to 1953, about 20 million dissidents, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
In 1938 Germany established gun control: From 1939 to 1945, a total of 13 million Jews and other “others” who were unable to defend themselves were rounded up and exterminated.
China established gun control in 1935: From 1948 to 1952, 20 million political dissidents, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Cambodia established gun control in 1956: From 1975 to 1977, one million educated people, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Guatemala established gun control in 1964: From 1964 to 1981, 100,000 Mayan Indians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Uganda established gun control in 1970: From 1971 to 1979, 300,000 Christians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
At the very least, 56 million defenseless people were rounded up and exterminated in the 20th Century after gun control laws were enacted in various countries around the world.
You won't see this data on the US evening news, or hear politicians disseminating this information. Guns in the hands of honest citizens save lives and property and, yes, gun-control laws adversely affect ONLY the law-abiding citizens. With guns, we are 'citizens'; without them, we are 'subjects'.
During WW II, the Japanese decided not to invade America because they knew most Americans were ARMED! Gun owners in the USA are the largest armed forces in the World! If you value your freedom, please spread this anti-gun control message to all of your friends. The purpose of fighting is to win. There is no possible victory in defense. The sword is more important than the shield and skill is more important than either.
SWITZERLAND ISSUES A GUN TO EVER HOUSEHOLD. SWITZERLAND'S GOVERNMENT ISSUES AND TRAINS EVERY ADULT IN THE USE OF A RIFLE.
SWITZERLAND HAS THE LOWEST GUN RELATED CRIME RATE OF ANY CIVILIZED COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!!!
IT'S A NO BRAINER! DON'T LET OUR GOVERNMENT WASTE MILLIONS OF OUR TAX DOLLARS IN AN EFFORT TO MAKE ALL LAW-ABIDING CITIZENS AN EASY TARGET.
I'm a firm believer in the 2nd Amendment! If you are too, please forward this. If you're not a believer, please reconsider the true facts. This is history; and if we do not want history to repeat itself, we must wake up.
Most often oversight: “For the love of money...”
Money in of itself, is simply a “mechanism” we use to express value, money is benign. It’s our spiritual relationship to money, this mechanism, where in lays the problem. Money, lending, commerce in all forms is mentioned throughout our religious texts, books of worship of all stripes. A commercial transaction is as human as anything. The transaction is quite easily the foundation of civilization. Society is formed through kin relationship and bonds of reciprocal altruism. The transaction is how we measure the latter. It’s how we conduct ourselves in these transactions that matter... honestly, earnestly, modestly, enthusiastically, and with kindness and generosity, in other words, altruistically.
Found: Escalation of Commitment
Escalation of commitment is a human behavior pattern in which an individual or group facing increasingly negative outcomes from a decision, action, or investment nevertheless continues the behavior instead of altering course. The actor maintains behaviors that are irrational but align with previous decisions and actions.[1]
Economists and behavioral scientists use a related term, sunk-cost fallacy, to describe the justification of increased investment of money or effort in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment ("sunk cost") despite new evidence suggesting that the future cost of continuing the behavior outweighs the expected benefit.
In sociology, irrational escalation of commitment or commitment bias describe similar behaviors. The phenomenon and the sentiment underlying them are reflected in such proverbial images as "Throwing good money after bad", or "In for a penny, in for a pound", or "It's never the wrong time to make the right decision", or "If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging."
Admit it, you were either barking instructions at your neighbours, friends and family OR, they’re barking orders at you. Problem, reaction, solution... using mob mentality to drive their Gestapo, the Stasi, the KGB tactics. This mob was you and me and... there’s not a damned thing any of us could have done to stop it.
Historically, government was simply meant as an idea, a system, a process to keep us from trampling one another’s other’s rights, rights we were born with. The idea of government seems to have been lost to the ages. Our governments are continuously co-opted by those who want power; want complete control; people who believe themselves to be kings. We’ve let them teach us to teach ourselves that by granting them this power our safety shall be ensured, that any rights we believe we hold were granted to us by our governments and that only by allowing power to be centralized within the Cabal they’ve convinced us is our government, can these rights be protected. Once again, they have pulled one over on you. So here we are again, all is lost... until... it’s not again.
They don’t tag turtles to watch a turtle, they don’t chip birds to follow where it flew one day. Chipping the masses is “next level” tagging n’ tracking. It’s Marketing Analytics at a granularity you couldn’t imagined. Adding highly attenuated geo-spatial and health vitality statistics to the mix. Understanding the murmuration of the masses allows for complete and utter control… of the masses. A herdsman watches over his flock, his dog chases down the strays.
Zip code marketing changed the world, tracking and tracing phone calls allowed marketing analytics to deliver the most wanted products, candidates, and messaging right to the doorstep. And remember, the greatest trick the devil pulled was making you believe he didn’t exist... The greatest thing your government ever did was to convince you it was bright enough or organized enough to pull this off; while they sold themselves out to the extremely bright, wealthy and well equipped little known demons. These little demons who wants to deliver their messaging, right to your doorstep and into your soul
If you’re reading this on a “phone”... you’ve already been tagged.
It really doesn’t matter what you or I think, 75 to 80 million Americans, maybe more, think the 2020 US election was a mockery and that Biden is an illegitimate President. They’ve watched the mainstream media overplay the events of the January 6th puppet show and are pissed at being linked to what they believe was an Antifa/FBI orchestrated puppet show.
These Americans were then told their stimulus checks were to shrink from two thousand to fourteen hundred dollars and that their share would be a grand total 9% of ONE POINT NINE TRILLION DOLLARS the Biden administration was spending on... the fact that even ONE single dollar was going overseas was... pissing people off.
It was hilarious to watch Twitter, Facebook and YouTube believe they had booted everyone who might frighten you off their platform and blocked their influence over the nets. If you though anyone who’d had their favourite commentators silenced over the social was happy to just let go, and didn’t just take that anger next door... you really should have gotten on Parler, Gab, Bitchute, Telegram or Rumble. Whether you or I agree that it was bald faced censorship or not is irrelevant. What you and I discuss is a fruitless philosophical conversation, at best... to the 75 to 80 million Americans however, it was censorship… plain and simple!
These 75 to 80 million Americans are still pissed off n’ angry... and it’s these 75 to 80 million Americans who won’t take lightly what they perceive to be a foreign backed takeover of their most precious of possessions, their elecions. These are the gentle, normal, average Americans who work, play, raise families and rarely complain as loudly as they are today. And, they’re the 75 to 80 million Americans who are armed but, who don’t riot, who don’t commit crimes, loot our burn their cities to the ground. These are the citizens who will quietly wait until they are pushed to the precipice. Don’t for a minute believe they aren’t being pushed.
Not a single one of the institutions we believed were in control is as permanent as it they once seemed to be. All our dollars, our various currencies are meaningless, the banks on Wall Street are a mirage. Even the men under the Pointy-Pontiff Pope Hat and the Wonky Chocolaty British crown are perched upon ancient crumbling family chairs that appear to be missing legs or barely able to bare the weight of what’s coming... Oh, and, it is coming... I’ve no clue when, I’ve no idea how. All I know is that everyone I know can feel it. Like I’ve said before, it really doesn’t matter what you or I THINK... it’s simply a feeling. A stinking thinking sinking feeling... that... as it ends... every little things, gonna be alright.
And… I’ll even betcha a hundred dollars... nothing will play itself our as either you or I predict it will play out… a week, a month or even a year from now.
Hey, isn’t mocking the value of $20 dollars an arrogant slap against a man who cannot afford a cup of coffee… Tom
Why wouldn’t a “vaccine” passport list all disease one has been immunized against? Why stop at immunization, why wouldn’t it contain one’s HIV status? What about your entire inoculation schedule, the date of your last flu shot? How could Canada ever allow those from poor countries with poorly run health authorities into our country? How could we ever trust that Nigerian proof of vaccination was not just “paid for” via a corrupt system of graft? Why wouldn’t we hold all visitors to the same requirements as our citizens?
SUGAR FREE [PART FIVE]
Total fucking decay. Everything around me on this walk today, out to the point. What’s the point? The makeshift tent-city, shanty town that sprung up in the park alongside my favourite walk out to the point on Belle Island, what a fucking mess; it doesn’t appear to be growing it’s just getting sloppier and sloppier. Full of absolute… shit. These poor fucking deranged drug addicts. Sleeping, wet, it soggy tents in the fucking snow, getting high… one would hope.
Now don’t get me wrong, I prefer this being their fate rather than scattering their tents towns all over the city. I think they’re probably safer all bunched together. Maybe, just maybe watching out for each other. Even just a little bit. It’s just, it’s just that it’s become such a garbage dump.
A few weeks back the city announced it would be “evicting” all the campers in a week. Oh how my virtuous neighbors did rejoice in the news. Finally, they’ll get the help they deserve, …the help they want them to have but wouldn’t ever begin to offer themselves, nor offer to pay for it. Obviously, the city wasn’t offering anything. There was no plan to help these soggy, smelly un-shelter-able drug addicts, just an evection notice. “Get the fuck out, Go somewhere else.”
I think the virtuous got wind of this, there being no plan and the whole eviction idea was scrapped, until March, when again, there will be n plan. The better weather will attract new campers, the site will grow and nothing will change… more fucking decay. Rot. People barely clinging, but at least cling on their own terms I guess. It’s the one thing I like most about this decaying lot, this “community of rot” along my walk to the point. They’re living on their terms, at least best they can. They’re establishing some personal agency, a little bit of control. The whole fucking world is decaying around us. These dirty drug addicts are at least decaying at their own pace, by their own “rules”. Tough bananas if it just happens to be a little bit faster than the rest of us are decaying.
“…what the hell are you on a diet for? You’re skinny as a rail!” she asked, indignantly.
Obviously, my sugar-free, caveman/biblical diet isn’t about weight. It isn’t about appearance, it’s simply about health. Getting rid of processed sugar, chemical additives, colors, flavours, preservatives and such, it’s gotta be more healthy right? I mean, it’s good for my mental health. Like giving up drugs, booze and smokes, I no longer feel chained to some asshole’s product. I no longer feel beholden or hooked on some fella’s “stuff”, some fella with questionable motives; some organization or agency’s “secret mission” if you want to be conspiratorial about it. Fruits, vegetables, meat… nuts and berries.
“I’m of the belief that this is what we were meant to eat. It’s healthy, it’s filling, and it improves my general well-being, my attitude and, hey maybe I’ll achieve some kind of better oneness with my penial gland or something. Become closer to God.” He answered matter of factily.
Barely clinging on… but that’s what we humans do. Even these sodden, unfortunate Belle Island Park drug addicts are clinging, holding on for dear life. Why? Because this life, is truly the most precious gift we’ve been given. It’s more than that even, you’ve been given something that is what it’s like to be you. You’ve been given a self, something that allows you to feel, experience… when that idiot drunken father of your’s luckiest of sperms sunk itself into your mother egg, you sparked, you jumped, your taught but motionless little membrane of potential “lit up”. A murmur, the mildest of vibrations, then another and another until it one day became the swirling, singing, quivering throbbing mess that is you, and only you… clinging to this life, stoned out of your fucking mind in a soggy tent on along the way to the point, what’s the point on Belle Island.
We cling to life because that, in the end is really all we got, and all we will ever have. We cling to this shit-ball because where we are is all we know. We cling to this not because we’re happy and satisfied with what we have. No, we cling to it because we know for a fact the very next moment will be better and, when it isn’t, we shrug it off and work towards the next moment… knowing it will be better.
In the end, is that really so bads?
If I were simply the guy who’d shovel the steps all winter. The guy who’d sculpt the snow into precision embankments, the guy who swept the salt and dirt off the walk after last week’s melt... If I were the guy who picked up all the garbage that melted out of the snow banks, or blew onto our lawn… If I were the guy I really wanted to be, I’d be the guy who picks up the butts from everyone who has walk by our doorways (those nasty butts he knows he'd be blamed for)... I might even be the best tenant anyone could ask for, butt... sigh, would they even see the guy I’d truly like to be? Or would they only see they guy, me… their neighbor standing outside, again smoking another butt that’ll be blamed on me.
I'm going to give it another go at quitting this year... Butt, I will not quit being the happy, friendly guy who keeps his own corner tidy & clean, best he can... here at the Rag n' Montreal :-)
On a happy note… I finally did quit smoking, and man, it was a whole lot easier than I’d always make it out to be.
Oh and if you submit to being vaccinated through coercion you will be changed forever. Perhaps not from the vaccine, but rather from the mere fact that you submitted to the coercion.
I told her how honoured I was to be driving her off towards the rest of her life, closer to her old hometown... I am a bit of a drama-Queen when it comes to these things, these special moments even in some strangers life. She tried to remind me that I’d driven her to and from work more times than a few… I nodded and pretended to remember, ‘cause that’s what you do.
She told me how this move all made sense and that she was happy to have one of her favourite UBER driver for her last trip home from the hospital. After all, “I was the guy who’d told her about the acid trips in LA, ...right?” …um… I reminded her it was an ecstasy, trip and then wondered (damn, just what have I been telling all my riders over the years anyhow?) I reached for my media-player (the spare phone I’ve set up specifically for music and books) and fumbled for a song I knew would work... there is indeed, at this point near the end of history, the perfect pop-song for every customer service opportunity.
As “I hope you had the time of your life…”, that old Greenday ditty play on…
She sniffled and smiled and I drove her towards these last few days and nights in her apartment on Armstrong. I reassured her that she was moving for all the right reasons (I guessed correctly on the closer to family part)... I suggested that this change was to be wrapped in pretty memories as she popped out the door... As I drove away with a nice little self-satisfied smile I thought, yup most days small town UBER driver is just about OK. I mean, if you’re upright and nice, you’ll end the right side up, on two feet, especially on these especially nice, maybe even drizzly steel-gray late summer days.
NOTE: the previous was obviously written before there was any proof. OBVIOPUSLY, there is more proof now… no?
The only facts you’ll ever know about me and the COVID vaccine is, you will never know whether I’ve taken it or not, ever. Just like you’ll never know if I’ve taken a flu shot, if I’m on PrEP or any other prescriptions. And what does that even matter if you’re not sniffling, coughing on me, or kissing me... I’ve weighed my odds, my odds alone, of contracting COVID and surviving COVID and will continue to weigh these odds as I make my very own decisions. My promise to you? If I’m sniffling or coughing, I will stay at home and, I likely will not try to kiss you… ewww.
Please note, your opinion of me is none of my business and I will do my best to keep my opinion of you to myself. My opinion of your opinions however, that’s another story. These opinions will likely become the basis for some very good and gleefully opinionated conversations down the road. If you’re not party to these wonderful conversations, I’ll do my very best to keep your name out of it. Of course, I can’t promise you anything. That’s my opinion.
If you think letting your government decide what is essential labor is remotely a good idea, wait until we let them decide how much income you need is “universally” and “basically” ... enough. Enough already
“Some of the biggest and boldest of men in the United States of America, in the field of commerce and manufacturing are afraid of somebody, are afraid of something unknown to any of us. They know that there is a power somewhere so organized, so subtle, so watchful, so interlocking, so complete, so pervasive that they had better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it.” - Woodrow Wilson
You are being played. You probably know this; maybe you do, maybe you never will admit it. This is all a lie. It always has been, it probably will all remain a lie for quite some time. Best that you see it as quickly as you can for once you do, you cannot un-see it. And seeing it is the first step before being released of the fear of… it. Stop giving into it. Play along with it, but do it smartly, with personal agency, with a purpose.
Stop… Being… Afraid
On the contrary, conforming to another’s customs is more often a highly uplifting experience, if it doesn’t seem phoney or gratuitous, I’ll especially wear a kippah/yarmulke anywhere that it might be a show of respect or even if it’s just good customer service... I would never mock anyone wearing a kippah/yarmulke never question them or judge them in any way. To each their own, and to all a good day. A blessed day really... לבריאות
Our Mayor is a weak weak man. — He’s a clown... I mean really, if he cannott defend his faith and separate this faith and his beliefs from those in his church he does not agree with; if he rather turn his back on his congregation, his friends his long tme fellow parishioners… He’s truly pathetic... half of this current council are nothing but hob knobbing virtue signaling, interventionist wimps... the other half are on “someone’s” payroll. I would rather have a mayor who belongs to a controversial church; who has convinced me that he does not agree with some of his church’s more controversial stands BUT who has made his faith clear to me, promised my he’ll continue to separate his church from his role as mayor AND continue to be a, pretty good mayor… As of this incident. He’s now just a snivelling idiot who has abandoned his faith, his friends and himself, for what… the chance to wear the Mayor’s sash for another four more years. Now empty years as he no longer has much of a purpose… as a man.
A little harsh? OK, here’s another take... I’ve met dozens of Muslim women. I drive them arounds regularly as customers,; yes even here in li’l ol’ Kingston. Most of them come here as students, commonly doing a residency on their way to their medical degree. Many of them have studied abroad for years. Often completing their undergraduate degrees at home on the Peninsula then doing their medical degree in the States or in Europe. A smaller group are the wives of Arabic men, also completing their medical degrees or post graduate degrees here at our little University.
Upon first meeting up with a Muslim woman, a new arrival, here in my car, I will honour them by never being the one who initiates the conversation. I’ve been around enough Muslim folk and conservative orthodox Jewish women to know this would be an insult. It’s funny how, after a few rides, mostly the young future-doctors will eventually crack. After, say the third or fourth trip they’ll usually pipe up and say “hello” to me. Often, this is the start of a wonderful little friendship that’ll last for the duration of their stay here in Kingston; most of them are here for a five-year medical internships or three year fellowships.
One of these women, Gahda was unusually quiet for almost two years. It was awkward in-so-much as she lived way out in the west end and our silent trips could last for 10 t0 15 minutes at a time. Happily though, once she opened up, I couldn’t get her to shut up. Over the course of our next few trips after our initiating a conversation, the stories began to flow… almost endlessly.
The stories all stemmed from how her son, her husband and herself had been split up and separated across three countries in order for her and her husband to complete their educations. He was doing a post-doc in computer science in Washington DC, she was, here finishing of an internal medicine residency and their son Saad, was at home in the Kingdom, with the grandparents.
I adore most of the Muslims gals I take for rides around town in my car. Assuredly so, most here in Kingston are a bit more educated, some obviously wealthy, but almost all of them display an outward sense of dignity and control that can so easily be attributed to their faith. After reading the “Abrahamic Books”, at least the big three, the Bible, the Qur’an and the Torah in the short span of fourteen months I’m reminded of what we’ve given up to have these self-directed, if it feels good do it lifestyles... How could I ever feel any disrespect for women of Islam wanting to wear her hajib? To be honest, I kind of envy them, their husbands and the steadfast joy, the control and dedication these expressions of their faith must bring to their lives.
On one of trips, later in the friendship Gahda reported on her having been accepted for a Fellowship in Toronto. We’d been speaking of this for a while, it was easy for me to share how happy I was for her. The move meant that her husband could easily fly back n forth for the last year of their separation. They were even considering having Saad come to live with her in Toronto as, the date of an actual family reunification was formerly at hand.
She became quite giddy on our last few trips. I heard many stories of her childhood in Saudi Arabia. She confided in all sorts of things, many of them that would likely get her in trouble with her husband and her parents. I’ve gotten the same level of giddy from other Islam girls as well. I think once they know you’ll never meet their “others” they’ll lososen up like anyone else and starte spilling the beans a bit… I’m reminded og the time two interns and I drove down some Kingston road whoping it up in the excitement of the announcement that women would soon be allowed to drive on their own…
The last time I drove Gahda to the hospital, you never knbow when the last trip will be so, the conversation is always about the same. I did tell her that I’d be saying goodbye as if it were our last about three trips before this one. She had been giving me updates on her departure date. She told me where her new apartment was, a part of Toronto I’d not had much experience in. I told her it was a great part of town all the same. I asked he if the decision had been made about bringing Sadd over, if she’d finally be reunited with her little boy…
“Oh yes” she beamed
And then she said, for no real reason at all… “You know in Arabic Saad means happy”
It’s not really that odd that I didn’t know this but… It’s something I will now always know.
It’s fun to get to know folks. My rule is to always say hello, always try to spark up a conversation, always ask even the most difficult questions with a lilt in your voiuce that assures one, you do actually really care. I love the challenge of “cracking” open a conversation with one of these Muslim gals! It’s never been not worth it, even if you get the bashful aloofness the first few tries. Gahda has been gone from Kingston for a few years now. I’d ask some of the Penisula gals she had left behind how she was doing. I did find out that indeed the husband had moved to Toronto and that they were all together with their son… In the end, Saad was indeed happy and… that’s how we’ll leave that one…
Oh, and wait, the nuns... I’ve got great nun stories from my time spent hanging out on the stoop at Our Lady of Pompeii on Saturday mornings in the West Village, but those stories miught be better for another day
No one likes being played or watching others being played, especially when the game is death of a friend. Or someone just like a friend. This being said, if you let yourself be played, you might just be an idiot. Sorry if this seems harsh but, this is the price one pays to participate in an opinion shaping exercises such as these.
It might be the only way we can preserve the solemnity of our passions towards the death of those we hold dear may be to soundly mock the fake tears that flow surrounding the death of the nameless in these all to frequents stories in the press. Perhaps the only way to save the sanctity of death is to never let the “sellers of the manufactured sad” catch up to us and catch us off guard, while we are week. It’s not that I do not care about the mountain of folks who died today, the folks I’ll never know. It's just, if I care too much for all this death around me, I may just run out of the “care” I’ll need to mourn the death of someone closer, someone who’s life means all the world to me.
Deriding someone on their ideas is “belittling” behaviour. It paints the as a close-minded fool. If you think people not wearing masks hurt you in some manner, keep a wide berth. If you feel people without masks hurt society remember, the “safety” of of our society is no more your jurisdiction than the person not wearing a mask. So… shove off you arrogant twat... You do you, and leave me be.
The Bob Marleys, Bob Dylans and Johnny Rottens et al of this world were a huge part of the left right “swindle”. This bait n switch “rock n roll” belief system that suckered three generations into a fake rebellion that did nothing but put morons into a comma where they’d “imagine”, in their fantasy world that doesn’t, never did and never will exist... that they were in fact cool, that they were making a difference man...
It was all manufactured. None of these bands were ever anything more than the Monkeys. Oh sure some of the songs were nice, well-crafted and fun to listen to but the message was garbage. “Burn it all down man” turned out to be a fucking disaster as, it all burned down, there’s very little left and we’ll be lucky to get out of this alive…
Boy, the way Glenn Miller played
songs that made the hit parade
Guys like me we had it made
Those were the days
Didn't need no welfare state
ev'rybody pulled his weight
gee our old LaSalle ran great
Those were the days
And you knew who you were then
girls were girls and men were men
Mister we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again
People seemed to be content
fifty dollars paid the rent
freaks were in a circus tent
Those were the days
Take a little Sunday spin
go to watch the Dodgers win
Have yourself a dandy day
that cost you under a fin
Hair was short and skirts were long
Kate Smith really sold a song
I don't know just what went wrong
those were the days
If you’re a kid right now, angling which way to turn for a good career. My suggestion, imagine a post-climate change bullshit society and the jobs that this might make available, BUILD THAT JOB.
The only way to keep one “safe” from misinformation and disinformation is tyo provide one with even MORE information.
“Bill C-11, is an attempt to put a pillow over the free expression of all Canadians. It didn’t pop up gopher-like out of the policy burrow of a second-tier Cabinet minister. Quite the contrary. This nefarious nugget was obviously the product of the top-rank philosophes of the Prime Minister’s Office, that sensorium of the whole Liberal party, from which emerges guidance and wisdom to elevate the lives and labours of ordinary Canadians, all set out with the confidence of a closed-minded pope.”
The moment Canada adopted hate speech laws was the moment we abandoned free speech to the person who was empowered to claim some such comment “hateful”. Who thought giving someone this power would be benign? Who couldn’t see, immediately that this “hate speech” mantra would become the bludgeon that would easily silence all comers… Allowing anyone to claim damages by another’s speech by claiming it hateful is a trap we may never emerge from. I will beg my friends in the United States of America… beware: Those touting the need for hate speech, hate your guts and… they want you dead.
Citizens of other nations were also faced with the attempt to apply similar systems within their societies. Most of them succeeded in stemming the establishment of such horrors. Be that as it may, the attempts to put us into these digital gulags will not cease. If not for health reason our governments will turn to economic reason. They will tempt us with offers of safety, convenience even “equity” or offers of seemingly “freebies” by offering say, a basic income. If you fall for it, all will fall. Humanity as we know it will be forever imprisoned, winnow and die. Yes, I am not being dramatic.
The elites who foist these systems upon the rest of us will fare no better as fewer and fewer within the ever narrowing echelons of power scramble to keep those just below them on the hierarchy from climbing above they themselves and squashing them into their own digital non-existence. Despite the gleeful shrill of the scientific materialists, their own time “at the top” will be measured in days if not hours.
This is civilization ending shit; species ending. The age of central bank. digital currencies, universal basic income, equity, social credit scoring et al, is upon us. The lie that is AI is being sold to enslave us. I have no answer for you, no suggestion but to resist. Resist with all your might, with what little humanity you have left. As we will soon find out, this humanity is rally all we ever had.
As your history passes through the hands of future generations, what triumphs of yours will simply be washed away by the most negative who wish only to see and focus on your flaws? Flaws that only became so as society progressed and trampled them to the ground. A future society hell bent on removing you from their story, continuously stomping out your memory with the pounding sounds of virtuous jackboots upon their freshly minted hallowed ground... AND, it will be good ground, nay, perfect ground upon which they stand.
So, keep digging you glorious little creatures. If it’s the horrors of the past you seek... horror is all you shall ever have. And the unimaginable untold horrors of your pathetic little future await.
Once we eliminate all things that offend someone, we will be left with... absolutely nothing.
Their vote to remove the statue of Sir John A. Macdonald but to put it back up elsewhere only exposes their lack of any real convictions. It is a spineless, meaningless gesture born of political immaturity and a “sucking need” to maintain their own tenuous grip on ridiculously worthless civic authority. It’s sniveling at best, utter cowardess in reality. I’m wondering if they even really have the authority given the “national” ramifications of denigrating a symbol of our nation in his own hometown.
Sadly, the fortitude of those in Kingston who disagree with decision is now on full display...disgusting in its silence. And, here’s the truest little secret, giving in on the statue issue doesn’t solve any problems. It only emboldens these troublemakers to create more... troubles. Once all the names are changed, once all the buildings are torn down and statues removed, the only thing left in their way, on their way to total control will be you.
All the new kids were to meet in the gym. There were four groups of K and per-K kids all sorted into each corner. Of course, most of the boys were running around at center court, being chased by some mom or dad. It was while our son was taking his turn running around when my Italian wife’s ears perked up. She paused and went over to a fella chasing his boy around, happily barking at him in Italian. It’s funny how one can so easily her their native tongue being spoken, even in the most cacophonous places.
As she struck up a conversation, I wandered over to watch the boy around her mild distraction. Santiago and our son had resigned to sitting and playing with toy cars together at our feet. I never did learn Italian all those years but I could make out bits and pieces; my Italian wife mentioned to me the boy’s name and returned to the conversation with his father. It seemed more involved than the usual Italian et Italian “what has you here?” type conversation I’d been witness to on any number of occasion. It was fast n’ furious at times, my wife was dropping some familiar names, appearing floored when the fella seemed to be agreeable; finally she looked over at me at exclaimed, you’re not going to fucking believe this.
So here we were in some random New York City Public School gym. First day for our boy. We meet an Italian speaker which in itself could have been consider a coincidence but not completely outside the realm of possibilities. Turns out, every question these two exchanged of each other just sunk deeper and deeper into the “no fucking way”…
“So you’re Italian?” my wife asked first
“No, I’m Puerto Rican, but my wife, his mother is Italian. I speak it…” he relpied
Then he offeres that they’d all just returned from a month in Rome and they’d all got used to using it.
“Where in Rome were you?”
“My wife has a place in Ostia Antica…”
“My mother moved to Ostia years ago, this is where I go when I visit…”
He offered that they have lots of friends, for some reason he mentioned that they’d just left a nice visit with Mario and Vivianna...
This must have been when the conversation got fast n’ furious. This was my wife’s brother’s name and Vivianna was his wife’s name. “Viviaana and Mario? …from Ostia? She blurted out her last name, stunning them both. – Here we were in some random New York City Public School gym. First day of school for our boy and we meet a kid and a dad who’d just spent a good part of a month not only in the same part of Rome as my wife’s brother but, was actually dear friends with them. Needless to say, my wife became dear friend’s with Santiago’s mom and my son has been friends with Santiago ever since.
Shit like this does happen. When it does so, embrace it. It means… everything.
Of course there’s also the story of the time in Vegas; at an Evander Hollifield fight when after standing in line to pee for what felt like an hour. I glanced at the guy next to me and found myself peeing right next to the lazy-eyed drunken moron I’d been of a pub-tour with in Central London about seven years earlier. I don’t talk to guys at the next urinal while I pee; he finished before I did and sunk into the crowd. I knew it was him. I’d never have forgotten the eye!
SUGAR FREE [PART SIX]
Do you think I care about your options of my opinions… ?
…leading to my detachment but commitment to the altruistic agreement we have reached
Final SUGAR FREE 7? Leads into the graphic novel of god discovering
PART ONE 8
Love… Die… happy 8
1) Loneliness Takes a Licking 8
2) A Good Citizen Remains Armed 11
3) What ? …Why… ? …Wait 11
STOP BEING AFRAID [OF]… PART ONE 13
4) Grow Up Already 13
5) Hate Crime 14
6) Professors, as a group, really can be the worst of people 14
7) UBI Work Camp (part one) 15
8) Mennonites 15
9) On Nuns and Prostitutes… 17
STOP BEING AFRAID [TO]… PART ONE 18
10) Way Too much Taleb 18
11) Masked Lives Matter 19
12) Defunding the police? 20
13) Power, Corruption and Lies 22
14) Dear Small Business Owner 24
15) What the Hell was I Doing Drinking in LA… at 30 Something 24
16) Tear it All Down Man (part one) 33
17) How Blind Are You? 35
18) I Will Not Become Victim 80,000,001 of the Chinese Communist Party 37
19) When You Need the Police in Seconds… 38
20) Little Green Tomatoes 39
21) Rich Fuckers 44
22) Convocation 2020 45
23) Dear Insider, Friends 47
24) I’m NOT Angry 48
25) Am I even allowed to say this? 49
26) A Separate Category of Acceptance 50
27) Three Ways to Leave 50
28) A Lot to Unpack 51
29) Quarantine Taxi-Cabbie 51
30) I Will Not Tell You 52
31) On Sanctimony 52
32) You will NOT be Saved. You Will SOON Be Dead 53
33) Happy INDEPENDENCE Day!!! 53
34) Be Adult 55
35) The Bush Stained Years 55
36) I’m Sad for Faggots 56
37) Overheard... “If You Torture the Data Long Enough, It Will Confess to Anything.” 57
38) The Last of the Marmora Street Dads 57
39) Images Are Power 58
40) The Founding Father’s Argument 60
41) Assisted Living… that’s Too Good for You, Brother 61
42) Tips 62
43) You are Watching Nothing but a Projection... 63
44) Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane 63
45) How the Hell Are We Ever Going to Fix This Hole? 68
46) RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over... 72
47) Welcome to Agenda-Land. 77
48) Racism is a Construct 78
49) Just Who is the Executive Producer 79
50) I Maintain, the Only Way to Counter Misinformation or Disinformation is With More Information 80
51) SECTION 230 - I Was There 80
52) The Natural Human Desire IS to NOT to be Ostracized 81
53) The Righteousness VS The Arrogance. 81
54) Rabbit 84
55) Parallel Worlds 85
56) Remember That Time He Served Him Ice Cream 85
57) Phillip Glass 86
58) Failure of the Law of Increasing Misery to Materialize 86
59) Sabrina Is Off to Engineering School in Los Angeles 87
60) I Am a Liberal 87
61) Judging the Chinese 88
62) A Near Death Experinec on the Bay Bridge in San Francisco 89
63) The Gender Studies Student 91
64) Leaning 92
65) Chinese Board of Directors 92
PART TWO 93
It Came Crashing Down? 93
66) Is Morven Even on the Meter? Just Getting Started in Amey’s Taxi, CAR 29 93
FIND A WAY, BEFORE THE CRASH 95
67) The Boneheads are Back, They all Grumbled 96
BUSTED INTO PIECES 100
68) Battling it Out on the Army Base, ZONE 21 101
WHILE IN BROOKLYN… REALLY? 103
69) We'll Now Be (more) Accepting (of) Leftovers 105
THANKS GUYS! 108
70) That Toot You Hear is the Sound of My Own Horn Tooting… 109
71) A Miserable Nothing Day? 111
72) Heaven n' Home 113
73) Don't be Messin' with the Nickles n' Dimes I Just Fished Outta My New-Found n' Favorite Fishing Hole 115
74) A Routine Job 119
[RESTART THE CRASH STORY HERE] 125
AND WITH A CRACK, HE BROKE THROUGH THE ICE 125
75) I Drove Her Part Way Back to The City This Morning 125
76) A Uniform Love in a (Young & Old) Man’s Heart 126
77) Beautiful Boys... Just Beautiful 129
78) The Good ol’ Day 132
79) God Only Knows 135
80) If God only Knew 138
81) I Don’t Recall Ever Seeing a Solo Goose… What's he After? 142
82) Just A Christmas Day Off n' Alone in CAR 29 143
83) Scottie 145
84) Dear ol’ Dad's, then Mom’s for Christmas Dinner... this Year 146
Weather or Not 151
Not Another Dream Job? 156
Finally, a Little Fear and Maybe Way Too Much Loathing on the Way, a Way Out to Old Collin’s Bay 160
There It Is 183
Jackpot 189
The Pelt Market is Down, Again 200
It Seamed a Clear Victory for Chivalry Along Victoria One Sunday Morning 204
My Mama Done Told Me… (revisited) 213
PART THREE SUGAR FREE 219
85) Levitation 219
86) Let Me Ask a Question... Does This Day Really Mean Anything to You? 220
87) A Cartoon Version Of Yourself 222
88) Wait, Simply 222
89) Hate Crime 223
90) University Professors 224
91) Overton Window Washer 224
92) Can I Practice an Argument Here? 225
93) Law and Ethics 225
94) Time Machine Hitler Killers 226
95) Another Censorship Question 227
SUGAR FREE [PART ONE] 227
96) With Regards to Homeless Camps 229
97) Living Well Rather Than Just Not Dying 231
98) I Hope this Doesn’t Destroy You 232
99) Q 232
100) Definitions, Conspiracies and Theories 233
SUGAR FREE [PART TWO] 234
101) Notes on Sexual Equality (or Equity) 236
102) Found: My Favourite Mindless Stunt 236
103) You Cannot Stop Them 237
104) Quote: Long Gone 238
105) Some People did Something, Twenty Years Later 238
106) An Accurate Watch 239
107) The Crying Eyes of a Child 240
108) A Note for the First Day of School 240
109) Press Circles 241
110) Power Game Again 241
111) A Toast 242
112) Insults, it’s How Men Learn 243
SUGAR FREE [PART THREE] 244
113) Silly Political Stuff 245
114) The Gentle Jew? Really? 246
115) Tear it all Down Man 246
116) Born Dying 247
117) To Those Who’ve Never Bothered to Read a Book 248
118) There’s a Funny Thing About Those Whose Ideas are Never Noticed 248
119) Look this Gem Up Some Day 248
120) Let’s Call it the Not Quite Annual nor Regular Constitutional Shakedown Tour 248
121) The Difference Between a Hoax and a Farce 249
SUGAR FREE [PART FOUR] 249
122) Please Stop (to be finished) 251
123) Censorship is Really Just an Act of Fear 254
124) Astroturf Uprisings 255
125) Cockroaches and Marketing 255
126) It's Never the Noise that Kills Us Dead 257
127) Whiny Bitch 258
128) It's Called a Hunch… Buddy 259
129) The Alcoholic Genie Joke 260
130) The Hasidic Jew Joke 261
131) The Order in Which We Learn Things 262
132) A Crime Against the Listener 263
133) That Guy Really Liked Cheese 264
134) Just Let Things Go 265
135) Tinder Please, I’m and Old Man 265
136) Dreaming of Jim 265
137) Authenticity 267
138) Enough for the Flat Earther Already 267
139) The Pageantry of Coercion 268
140) I Found this Somewhere Along my Travels: Why Carry a Gun 269
141) Transactions ARE Human 272
142) It Will Come from Business 273
143) They WILL Track Us 273
144) Pissed off America 274
145) Institutions Crumble? 275
146) Mush 276
SUGAR FREE [PART FIVE] 276
147) The Guy on the Stoop 278
148) Rappino & Coercion 279
149) Her Very Last Day 279
150) Offend Someone, NOW 280
151) I am Not Buying Into this Silly Class War 281
152) There is No Proof 281
153) My Opinion 282
154) Who is More Loathsome? 282
155) I am NOT now, nor will I ever be Anti-Yarmulka 283
156) Under the Bus, The Story of a Bad Bad Mayor 283
157) I Will Keep My Nose Out of your Business 284
158) Saad is Happy 284
159) Death of a Friend 287
160) Indians 288
161) Terms of Bigotry 288
162) The Left Right Swindle 289
163) Climate Changes, So What? 290
164) A Seriously Huge Admission 290
165) Censorship is Out of Control 290
166) Belittling Motherhood 291
167) Any Sovereign Nation 291
168) Putting Words in Their Mouth 292
169) Three Gorges Damn Collapse 293
170) Pretty Bold Move 293
171) Meeting Santiago 294
172) It’s All Garbage 296
173) There’s No Church in Rome 296
174) The Victory Celebration 296
175) The World is Far More Interesting at 5 AM in the Morning Than it is at 5 AM at Night 296
176) Echo 296
177) Give Yourself Permission to Believe in Things You Know are Probably Not True 296
178) You are not alone (Little Green Tomatoes Revisited) 296
SUGAR FREE [PART SIX] 297
PART ONE
Love… Die… happy
- Loneliness Takes a Licking
The old wandering man with a deep n’ distinctly Canadian radio voice led me straight to the door of this old building; old as in it was one of those ugly early 1970's lump of form-molded now mouldering cement basically charmless old buildings. I stepped inside another nondescript glass double doorway, just like every other apartment doorway I’ve stepped into of late. An airless air-locked vestibule with a panel of apartment buzzer-buttons stretched from here onto almost well, just over there. Random code numbers not matched with any specific apartment nor any place else in space, time or… really. I pressed all the buttons I could with the palm of my hand, if even just to see what might happen. The door lock buzzed once, then twice… a third time “who is it?” crackled over the muffled tin eared old speaker; it didn’t matter, I was already inside the inside glass double doors and on into the entranceway corridor.
These apartment lobbies never cease to amaze me. Arranged as if people might actually gather in here. An uncomfortable chair there, far too far away from the ugly unmatched couch over here. A French Regal knock off of a coffee table in-between; so ill spaced it would take even the tallest of someones a hearty lean n’ lurch inwards just to reach someone’s now getting too cold cup of coffee… A bank of four elevators, none yet on the ground floor. A small wait as I fixed on an idea of just what it was I’d get up to. That old man with the deeply distinctive Canadian radio voice may have led me here, but he didn’t leave me a clue as to what I might do. On into the elevator, the one second from the left… no thirteenth floor, we’ll head on up to fourteen, meh, it’s all just the same… each floor upon floor upon floor and on upwards, all just the same as this mis-numbered thirteenth.
As I stepped off the elevator, feet firmly planted onto a well trampled down overly vacuumed still dirt laden body-oil n’ sweat stained old carpet; with a pattern so ridiculous I won’t bother to describe it. All at once taken aback by the far too familiarly spiced-pungent smell of poorly prepared ethnic cooking. A wretched smell with no specific geography, just for certain not from anywhere remotely near here. I went left down the hallway, the numbers shrinking down in my direction, growing back up to the left. At the end of the hall I found a door not locked but unopened. Why not, I was here, so I went on inside.
A spartan arrangement of more mismatched furnishings. Too stuffed couches and a recliner propped upright right in front of the TV… It was on, with volume turned down, I didn’t recognize the show it was airing. I wandered around what little there was to wander around in. A peek out the balcony window, the bedroom strewn with a least a week’s worth of unwashed clothing. An odor, faint at first seemed to swell as I approached what was likely the bathroom. I braced myself for forest greens or flamingo pinks and an un-flushed and stained stinky toilet.
Of course I was obviously a little surprised to find that old hag Mrs. Brown faced down on the, oddly enough bone white tiled floor. Her bluing hair matted in a clot of blood that had circled her head as if it was just a bit frightened to ooze out much further. A naked lump of a lady in a quite unlady-like arrangement; feet bent up backwards, dangling inside the bathtub. The torn off the rod shower curtain clutched in her now cold n’ stiff wee little wrinkled old hand. No foul play. Just a sad slip and one less lonely old lady waits, getting colder, for some long-lost uncaring family member to notice she hadn’t called to complain for a few too many more days than as per usual… I let her be. First closing the slit of a lightless bathroom window so that the stench of her death might leak more quickly into and mix with the odor of the ill prepared ethnic cooking down the hallway. Someone would notice soon enough I figured as, I had, twice before.
Down at the other end of this hallway the Baxters were at it again. He’d started drinking for the very last time again early that morning. Mrs. Baxter’s tears of enragement swelling up as she told him at the top of her lungs this was it, for the very last time… all over again like the last time. I had an immediate and eerie premonition that we’d be reading of Baxter’s well timed and well planned in advance suicide in the morning papers one evening later that week. Above the Baxters ol’ Ralph Simmons was having an uneasy sleep in his easy chair in front of a TV that hadn’t worked properly for ages. Next door, apartment 15B, the sweet-hearted Mistress Patricia, the building’s Dominatrix was turning most likely her 1000th trick; “NO SEX” claimed her advertisement. Apparently that was just to ensure guaranteed and regular insertion on the back pages of the local entertainment weekly. I guess someone somewhere still lives up to some standard through even all this… somehow they do it.
The elevator bell dinged to let off some people; signalling the right time to duck into the stairwell. I’d rather I’d not had been seen wandering around all alone here in these hallways. The next best thought to go through my mind was to head for the rooftop to see if this lonely old dump of a place filled with lonely dumpy old people would afford me a view. Brilliant as I found no lock nor alarm, so in a breeze I was outdoors again, in utter relief just to breathe. I’d felt no sadness having seen the old hag Mrs Brown faced down in her final un-lady-like posture; nor any anxious anxiety having listened to the Baxter’s have at it again. I just wanted out of here and into some fresher air on this very cold winter’s evening… heading towards the edge of the building to have a good look, without even thinking I took one giant lurch of a leap up and over the…
As I drifted on upwards, the dump of a place shrunk before me in perspective against the snow covered mound upon which it uneasily rested. I was surprised not to find it nestled into a more likely clump, or is it cluster, of developer-densified, un-stylishly cheap-assed lower middle class highrise housing apartment might be situated in the projects… It stood there all by its lonesome, totally on it’s own; on it’s perch on the bald of this barron rounded mound. No other buildings, no strip mall nor plaza nor another split level ranch style house within miles in either direction.
Off in the distance the sights and sounds of three bright n’ shiny well washed firetrucks racing toward the place caught my attention. Growing louder now and with an urgent official like vigor, they pulled up alongside this crummy old apartment. The reddest of red fire engine paint jobs glistened alongside the all day with nothing better to do polished chrome. Washed wiped n’ waxed to the point where one could barely stand to stare into it, lest catch a glimpse of themselves they’d rather not see. A burly gruff of a well uniformed fireman stepped out of the first truck walking more slowly than one might have expected. He looked at the plaque bearing numbers indicating the address above the outside glass double doorway that lead to the vestibule too full of apartment buzzing buttons. With a turn to his mates, a nod in agreement, he pulled out a match, struck it and lit the shit-hole on fire. It went up like a light, like a late summer’s Lower East Side tinder-box ghetto disaster n’ poof… it was gone. That lonely dump of a place, dumped full of lonely people with so little left to do they’d stopped doing anything at all ages ago… It was gone in a flash puff of odorless smoke and good riddance. Except for Mr. Baxter not a single one of those sad lonely souls survived it… of course they’d all lost their battle to live to that loneliness in that lonely building oh so many long years ago…
- A Good Citizen Remains Armed
- What ? …Why… ? …Wait
How we loved mocking these fools, these idiots vacating their better seats while filing for the exits at the end of the 7th or in the middle of the 8th. Vacating the “better seats” that we’d so happily slip down the stands and into for the more interesting parts of the game. Looking back, it’s with a little pity that I recall the things these people would have missed. The comeback obviously, but even more so, the little moments; the “could this be the comeback” conversations, talking through each of winning scenarios, always knowing that I indeed this one would be, indeed the one for the history books.
It was in pursuit of these stories, these threads n’ histories that had Kevin and I at Wrigley Field one afternoon and down to old Comiskey Park later that evening. It was one of those late game abandoned seat vacancies that found Kevin and I sitting directly on top of the wall in right field for a lazy long fly ball catch to end the game; a lazy fly ball we could have caught ourselves if we weren’t that good and respectful of fans. We sat in similar vacated seats with less than a few hundred diehard souls in the “mistake by the lake”, the stadium built for 80,000, finding ourselves right on top of the dugout as our team lost in the bottom of the 11th after a two-hour rain delay and just before a gloriously wretched, late-night four-hour drive back from Cleveland to Toronto. Later that same year, or maybe the next, perhaps ‘87 or ‘88 we sat in our very own and totally shitty North Grandstand seats, sharing a sad smoke with ol’ Georgie, him, a mere four hundred plus yards down the left field line on the dugout steps but, right there with us,sitting, smoking for a whole hour after the losing end of one of the more beautiful season of baseball we’d ever shared.
I saw my very last ever baseball game from the “short porch” as the Yankees lost the World Series on the very last pitch of the game. The very last games of World Series baseball ever played at the very old stadium.
Just who are these folks leaving a game in the middle of the eighth or even yet, well before the seventh inning stretch? They’ll tell you they want to beat the rush to the subway, get their car out of the lot. They’ll convince themselves and tell ya, “this game’s so already over” as they rush to the next unpleasant moment in their pitiful little life. They’ll remind you of the important things they’ve scheduled for themselves that night or first thing in their the next anxiously awaited for day. Things to never get done and people to barely really see in a self-important blur. A life full of empty unfinished business and moments missed while arranging a meeting in front of the person to which they only really get to say, “sorry, I’ve gotta go”.
Is there a touch of arrogance in their most definitely knowing how things will turn out? They’re good to go as who’d dare mount a comeback in their absence? I’ve been right all these times before, how on earth could anything not happen exactly as I’ve envisioned it will… “in my unshakable understanding of the future”; a future spent explaining how things went exactly as you knew they would rather than how you said they would last night.
Like baseball, it’s taken me a little bit longer to learn that absolutely nothing has or will ever unfold exactly the way I thought it would. Many things have, thankfully unfolded much better many more unfolding in ways that, if predicted precisely, wouldn’t have been nowhere near as marvellous. Un-predictions, impatience and the ill begotten management of expectations has led me down some of life’s better roads. An old flame once said, “I always leave a little undone before leaving each night so that I know where to begin again the next morning”. This might be one of the wisest things I’ve ever been told. “Be happiest not knowing how that day will end” may be wiser yet. Knowing to “stay with the game” until the bitter or its most beautiful, unexpected ending might just be the wisest way of all. I mean, what’s a life if you can’t bear to wait even just a few more moments more for it to be… truly, and so satisfyingly… over?
STOP BEING AFRAID [OF]… PART ONE
- Grow Up Already
“The best is kinda the enemy of the good”. Perfection is an honorable pursuit, but God blesses those with the greatest of ideas and sense enough to know, it’s good enough to start working on what comes… next.
- Hate Crime
We are being forced to become totally dependent on “them” to protect us from one another. We are being used, used against each other in order to ensure their power over us.
But go ahead, run around thinking everyone is a racist while you’re not. The truth is you are not a racist, neither am I, nor are the vast majority of our fellow citizens. The racists are the power hungry who work to divide us using accusations of racisim as their weapon... This will not end well for us, for them or… for anyone.
- Professors, as a group, really can be the worst of people
- UBI Work Camp (part one)
- Mennonites
After calming down a bit, I found Jake and his wife directly behind me in line, and asked them sardonically, hoping for them to be my compatriots in anger, "where are you NOT-headed today?"
"We're off to Pennsylvania" Jake replied happily. Paying no attention to the anger dripping from my question. His pleasant smile mirrored in his wife’s demeanor took the punch right outta me.
I'd ridden these buses with the Amish for years now; and, oddly enough, never had never taken the opportunity to 'brake' the silence and ask even this simple a question. Jake's reply was my first chance ever to get in there and muckity-muck it up with a man from the clan of the hand-sewn suit. Jake and I kibitzed about his community here in Canada as compared to the community there in Pennsylvania. He was from there but had moved here and was headed back there to visit family he’d left behind there. He mentioned that he’d moved from there because they'd run out of space for him to establish his own farm there. He was fascinated to hear I’d lived in NYC was interested in my experiences there and my stories of moving to and from here and there… He was fascinated with my having been living in the city during the terrorist attack; I think my account was more personal than he might of expected and, his reaction seemed to open him up a bit more than normal… this opening gave me the courage to ask of him… “so, do many of your kids leave the community”… ? … “what's the response in the community… what does the community think if they come back?"
"Oh sure, there are a few who decide they need to see what it's like out here…"
He did implied that most of them will wander back eventually. He was amazed that any of us could put up with what we have out here…he seemed genuinely fascinated by out here, but with no honest interest in living out here whatsoever. He was a very pleasant fella, eager to chit chat, he was genuinely amazed over my having only the one son against his fathering of five… plus his five girls.
We chuckled when he assured me "he had no internet
His wife was nice and seemed somewhat younger than how old she looked. She smiled as we two fellas spoke. With respect to my understanding of their practices, I did not speak to her directly and didn't ask her any questions. Our eyes met briefly a few times and I threw her a glance or two to invite her into mine and Jake's conversation… an invitation unaccepted. She never once spoke but she smiled, nodded now and again. She had a nice, strong quiet smile.
Now, I still know very little about these Amish-Mennonites, is it, faith? Jake informed me it was ancient, German and Christian in origin… definitely Christian. Was his quiet wife happy behind her smile and her hand-fashioned blue bonnet? Later, after our bus had been delayed one, more, time… after we'd been led back to the chairs in the waiting room, I found her furiously scrawling notes onto a well-worn stack of papers… recipes? A to do list? Which of the chicken's needed to be fed which kids need to be bathed, hugged or spanked… her thoughts, her prayers, her stories? I'll never know, maybe all of the above, most likely the latter.
I'll never know if she's a happy woman. I'll never know if she's fulfilled, complete… whether she wears her blue bonnet because she wants or needs to, whether it’s because she's been told to or if it’s all she really knows. It’s pretty much all I can do is look at her smile and assume… she's happy… enough.
Funny enough, just after meeting Jake and his wif on the way to Pennsylvania… I caught a meme floating around the internet…
- On Nuns and Prostitutes…
My most significant interactions with "the nuns" was to wish them a good morning as they collected the Times from the stoop of Our Lady of Pompeii, the Catholic church upon whose said stoop I’d sit upon while reading my news when waited for my gal to open her street market on Bleecker on all those good and glorious Saturday and Sunday mornings a way back when. The nuns always had a warm smile… that nun smile, that all-knowing-nun smile that would make even the most innocent man feel, just a bit guilty.
We’d share our smiles, the num’s smiles at the grace and the glory of their god I suppose. Mine at the grace of an opportunity to take a little me moment while my gal prepared our boy for another wonderfully hectic dad-day up in our apartment across the street. Just a couple of friendly people commenting on the pleasantness of a quiet morning moment in the West Village.
Sad to say honestly, I've had far more interactions with prostitutes than nuns over the years. Conversations and questions asked... I've shared coffee talk with some of the gals and I’ve have had friends who’ve had taken up the trade in support of this venture… or that. I’ve known a few nice gals who’ve paid their pay a bill to, sigh... A few of them have told tall tales of "empowerment"; but I’ve heard for more sad stories of utter coercion and surrender. I've concluded, obviously its nasty business… either way.
The reason I’m even bringing these two situations up, side by side are recent conversation that suggest both practices, nunnery and hookering are somehow both a form of prostitution. I've found myself troubled by these conversations. In some cases the protagonists have argued the being a hooker is quite possibly the better choice
As a man, I must ask myself… what good comes of my asking over the wisdom of choices of a woman? Who am I to serve as judge vaguely whether either the practice of being a nun or a prostitute is a good choice for any woman? Who am I to add my male voice to the voices of clergy, the husband, the client… the pimps, that echoes in these women's minds? Most certainly I can address and raise concerns and comment on the coercion I've seen in the latter… but question the faith of the former? Equate this faith with what I perceive to be the sadness of a life of prostitution? …never able to raise a concern without seeming to make a judgement, at all.
Perhaps these conversations raise a point I am missing… I have been known to miss a point or few. I guess all I can really hope is for that the woman in the penguin suits, the blue bonnets and whatever the prostitutes wears or doesn't is able to speak out and seek out some help and guidance. Able to inform us that their choice was not wise, that their choice was not theirs, and that their smile is not genuine… If they do, I hope they've found we've given them a place to go.
STOP BEING AFRAID [TO]… PART ONE
- Way Too much Taleb
Given that I drive on average, 70,000km per year, the likelihood of my being a driving fatality can be represented as 0.0035 in 1. Apparently, the number of people, aged 50 to 60 that die after contracting COVID after all these months is 0.0025 in 1. This leaves me with a 71% greater risk of killing myself by driving than from dying from COVID… if I get it.
As for getting it… Having picked up 4,123 UBER fares since last March 13th (the beginning of our quarantine here in Canada) with each fare including say 1.25 people, it looks like I’ve had 5,154 “contacts”, not including visits with David, William my sister and mother…Obviously, it’s not like I’m not doing everything I can to check the math for the previous equation.
Let’s summarize this foolishness by saying, I’d be pretty “Anti-Fragile” if I let myself be “Fooled by Randomness” enough to believe that even with so little “Skin in the Game” I’m not still as yet subject to the possibility of a “Black Swan” and dying from COVID… If I were a betting man though, I’d still bet on… wrong turn.
- Masked Lives Matter
- Defunding the police?
As with many other social philosophies, I like to break things down orbitally. What is my personal responsibility in policing myself, my family, my neighbourhood? What’s my role in protecting the community at large, my city and so on. Starting with myself isn’t a narcissistic, selfish position, it’s more the idea that, you can’t be useful to the group if you’re not a useful person. What is my individual responsibility to the group is what I’m going with here. How about we try the air safety example as an illustration here; you really should, as the folder in the seat back pocket describes, put your oxygen mask on before assisting others. (duh, otherwise you die from lack of oxygen beforehand, moron).
Again, starting at the starting point, let’s look at policing myself. Indeed, your worst assumption is correct, I will be going straight to open carry. But why? Well, isn’t the first priority of any security force, army, militia, police et al to defend, deter? A large percent of petty theft is deterred by a lock on the door, this may even be a greater deterrence than fear of being caught. Another deterrent, a worry a potential criminal might carry is that his bad behavior will be met with swift and deadly force. In many instances, this might likely be the best deterrent of all. So, lets ask ourselves, how much would it cost to arm and train every adult citizen in the use of personal firearms? Let start with a one-time cost of say, $500 or so for the best handgun ever… A solid initial safety training program, with a class size of maybe 15 to 20 souls; add secondary excellence and marksmanship training… who knows exactly but, likely way less, pennies on the dollar when compared to the previously mentioned $414/capita per year it now costs to police each Canadian. AND, we’re not talking about training ALL Canadians, nor sending them to class every year!
That covers the first orbit, the personal orbit. What about all those other orbits? Well, first off, knowing all my good neighbours are well armed and well trained, certainly makes my neighbourhood a safer place. Know that every crossing guard, bus driver, teacher and janitor could and would take swift and lethal action would leave me extremely confident that my children are safe. I’d feel more relaxed knowing my wife had a gun on her hip to deter any potential rapist or kill ‘em if they made their play. Obviously, I know the rapist would be armed as well, and that? That’s simply the next step, in my plan to “defund the police”… threat detection.
OK, so posit that this well-armed and well trained citizenry will eliminate a vast percentage of threat. However, as it stands in the world as it is today’s, even with a well-armed, well trained police force, some criminal bozo, some Jim Bob n’ Billy Joe, is still gonna try; still going to take that chance to get their liquor n’ smokes for free; andnrob the cash register while they’re at it, right?
This is where some new thinking will be required in the courts. Now that the entire citizenry is armed Lets consider this, every potential criminally violent altercation could result in a swift and lethal outcome, death or permanent disability. This being so, every threat of criminal action should and must be treated as a capital crime. The penalty should always be severe as any capital crime committed today. That rapist may have survived the six of nine rounds my wife put into his leg and chest, but it’s the last chance he’ll ever get to attempt “suicide by citizen (policing)”… in some jurisdictions, I’m sure they’d just finish him off on the chair or table, in mine, I’d vote to let him suffer through and lick his wounds behind bars for the remainder of his pathetic little life. Of course, there’s something to be said here for doing away with prisons, and just letting him wandered through these well-armed streets, now unarmed… maybe in uniquely marked clothing, perhaps a huge target on his back.
A final thought depends on the courts. Considering again my wife and her would be rapist; Juries are going to need to be swayed the right way when it comes to benefiting the doubt while adjudicating what actually happened on that lonely, darkened street. Did Jim really jump Jane from behind the bushes? Or was it the first date on their hushed tryst behind my back? A dalliance gone wrong? Maybe Karen, er… I mean Jane had second thoughts, maybe she just didn’t like the cut of Jim’s COVID mask. I’d hate to be that jury if Jim were black and Jane were white, or vis-versa… um, what’s that got to do with “defunding the police”?
These are fundamental security issues. Personal and community issues. Between the city, the Provincial and Federal authorities, I’m currently being policed by three different agencies split between a myriad of services from traffic laws to bi-laws and criminal law. All I want is to secure my family, my neighbourhood, my property and keep drugs out of my children’s hands. Obviously, I think we spend far too much. AND now it would seem, many people think we’re trusting the wrong people to do it these things we need, so, indeed… why NOT just do it ourselves? In the end, who else can you trust but your own good judgment… and a loaded side arm! …I mean, in the end.
So let’s start the lively conversation. Any questions? How about an example question… Q: Why not make guns illegal? A: Who’s going to ‘police’ that law?
- Power, Corruption and Lies
Isn’t that all this is really? Just another childish power play? I mean that’s my two cents this morning anyway. Seventy-five years since the end of last big power grab, yawn, one group attempts to arrest that power. The power the establishment so fervently tried consolidating over all these years… I’ll just get this out of the way right here, right now. It’s never about what we, us peons appear to be fighting for, it’s what they’re fighting for behind our back. While they have us fighting one another, they’re winning ground hand over fist, day after day.
I don’t think they actually know that it never ever really works. I mean their capturing total power for like, forever. Of course, given current technologies, anyone with the power to control communication, genetics and most thought might just maybe get really close to pulling it off, for good, but... OK, they were able to sell us these mind control tracking devices by telling us they were “smart phones”… but… are they really that close to the grand prize? Are they really that clever? Are we that completely stupid?
The good news I’m hearing. That viral lockdown maneuver didn’t work. And given they’ve gone back to having us all worked up and yelling at each other over the same old meaningless crap, I’m left wondering if they’re grasping at straws and really have nothing left… I’d fully expect more spectacular mass shootings even if every one of them after Vegas seemed to be such an utter dud (Do you even recall, that distant news story where a man, with 20+ some odd sub machine guns, fired on a crowd, from a smashed open Vegas hotel window disappeared from news cycle in four days, before anyon was formally even charged… remember that? What happed to that?)… What about the most recent crashing plane? Everything feels like a meaningless one off really. Even speculating over the frightening scenario of the destruction of one of our major cities, or a civilization destroying EMP blast just seem like, yawn, I guess cards they might just play. Seems to me, we’d be over any n’ all that in a matter of days, if not hours… these days.
Really, what a great time to be alive. Here we are, us lucky buggers, bearing witness to the latest, greatest and by far most pivotal of all power struggles. The most recent attempt to “gain all”, 1914–45 wiped out hundreds of millions. This one might not take as long but could easily take out way ay more of us little folk and, worse it could take the one thing we can never surrender, that last precious drop of personal liberty. We’ve never had very much, but really, honestly, truly, could you even imagine the living hell it would be to give up what little we’ve ever had? So… Good morning, folks! Wake up! It’s a brand-new day! Back at ‘er. And never give up, never stop fighting and… but …hey, what’s that shiny thingy over there?
- Dear Small Business Owner
- What the Hell was I Doing Drinking in LA… at 30 Something
“…What the hell am I doin’ drinking in LA at…” this old song, kind of hip, sorta hop, kind of electric n’ soulfully smooth brought back a memory, not my best memory, a memory that had lay in waiting to be re-remembered for a long while since its last time remembered. One of those crazed ol’ drinking day memories; certainly neither the highest of hi-lights of my drinking career nor my career-career for that matter. Just another easily could have been lost little memory. A little bit of fun had another lifetime ago.
The song sent images and scenes of utter recklessness from a moment in time before my second and third marriages. A time before the second and final attempts to become a New Yorker. That old Bran Van 3000 song… A nice memory of a odd time, when I just happened to find myself in a nice place called LA… that sudden flush feeling? That’s the feeling one gets when remembering something that maybe didn’t play out quite right, didn’t go as I thought it might and definitely not as I would have eventually liked to remember it going… like many memories of newly single men, a situation that probably should have been played, differently.
For some strange reason I’d been given the opportunity to travel to LA to visit the ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada), Kim Campbell, in this big ol’ house which they’d provided for her as kind of bask-handed thank you for being the First Woman Prime Minister of Canada. I’m pretty sure it was one of those “get her the hell out of here, now” kind of political appointments. A quick fix; let’s make her Canada’s liaison to the stars before anyone notices that all we wanted of The First Woman Prime Minister of Canada was to complete her assignment to kill conservative party politics in Canada for a decade (or more). And just like that, there I was, at her place, in LA, all suited up in my best skinny panted suit. All Dick Van Dyke’d like and ready to roll with the rollers, sippin’ wine and munchin’ on canopé in the house of the Canadian attaché to this, that or something culturally sounding woo-ha-ha… A pleasant spot to leave Canada’s First Woman Prime Minister who’s no longer needed or wanted… in Canada.
Looking around upon my un-announced un ceremonial arrival, I should have noticed that the complete lack of any real “brand name” A, B or C list stars. Not even one of those transplanted, hard to remember Canadian stars, the one’s who never readily admit to even being Canadian. Indeed, this lack of stars was a bit telling; Little did I suspect up my arrival that I would learn later that night… there were far more glorious stars to be enjoyed in old LA. Stars well beyond those missing from Prime Minister Kim’s backyard industry shin-dig-get-together.
When I attend a soiree such as this one, one of either two party-personalities is likely to show up; I’ll either be that quiet guy standing over there, you know, all by himself, or the not so quiet but not annoyingly noisy guy, the gob-handed and yickity-yacking guy looking for anyone and/or everyone willing to listen to whatever gibberish is dripping outta my mismatched brain n’ mouth at any particular given moment. As I recall, at this particular soiree, I came as the all by himself over there kinda guy. I was mostly lost, invisible even, behind the enormous girth of my two new business partner’s egos. Standing alongside these old movie-biz wanna-bees, suffering the sheer stupidity of their thnking it would be a fine idea to drag me, the relative youngster across the country so they could canoodle with their inbred-industrial money-burnin’ movie-making assholes; the folks they looked at lovingly as good-friends from “the Industry” but who actually cared little, if anything for them – I further recall, quite vividly that, although I was not gob handing big-wigs or spouting gibberish to potential business partners, I was indeed, generally, having a very good time quietly talking… to the staff.
Being recently un-married and singled, and in LA and younger than most who’d shown up to this soiree and almost as stupid as I’d ever been… I found myself oogling the only pretty good-looking babe that had appeared at the party. Apparently, the First Woman Prime Minister of Canada’s parties didn’t draw much in the way of the cliché bevy of broads and/or dames out here in the Hollywood (in the 1990s). Although it was the quieter me who’d shown up, I was able to pull off a few manoeuvres and soon found myself in a wonderfully pleasant conversation with one of our First Woman Prime Minister’s personal assistants. I have no recollection of this young lady’s age or name. All I can recall is that the conversation was bright n’ lively. She was younger than me and shared a similar suspicion of the crowd we were in and… I’m pretty sure she was a brunette.
I haven’t a clue how it all happened; I guess I’d let drop that I had plans for later, great big plans. Whether I asked her or she simply decided to tag along, I don’t recall; likely the latter as I’m dreadful at “the pick-up” lines. My strategy to that point in my life was to just sit at the bar, be as intention-less as possible and, see if anyone notices and maybe asks a question that might lead to… something else. I think this strategy has worked all of once, other than apparently, this time…
For the sake of this story, let’s call this gal, Prime Minster Kim’s personal assistant say, Alice. After dispatching ourselves from this way more borin g than one might have hoped an LA movie-maker party might be, Alice and I ended up in my rental car. A not at all too Macho Mustang convertible… and then, off we went to… see the stars.
This wasn’t my first time in LA. The first time I went to LA, I didn’t have the slightest clue. My small town Ontario/Toronto upbringing and limited travel to only eastern or near-mid-western American cities left me to assume that all American cities were more or less laid out the same. If you simply looked hard enough you’d find another nice little neighbourhood, a nest of streets compacted with this restaurants, “that bar” you’d been looking for, that nice neighborhood with just enough things to do before wanting to saunter off to the next nice neighbourhood that would be right over there just beyond the next street over from here, or there.
The first time I took a cab in LA, the driver seemed a bit stunned when we asked him to drop us off on, in no particular place, just somewhere along the Sunset Strip, anywhere, you know, where the action is… in the neighborhood. He dropped us at, who knows where? I think the address was something like 10,678 Sunset; and after walking forever, we found a place for a beer at, like, 7,456 Sunset Boulevard… after repeating this -700 dollars in cab fare- more times, and after miles of walking.
This time around, on this, my second trip to LA, I rented s car. The aforementioned not in any way shape or form, too Macho Mustang convertible.
So here we were, Alice and I, after leaving the soiree, cruising the freeways of LA towards… Out of the city at super high speeds.
Before leaving for LA, I’d conducted a semi-extensive chat-room search and found where the party kids might be have one of their clandestine little parties while I was in LA… to party. Post-divorced, freshly minted and self-described up n coming business tycoon me didn’t really enjoying the nightclub crowd. I had fallen in with a more “underground” dance party-n-raver scene. A somewhat more clandestine crowd that had took root in Toronto in the late 90s. I guess Alice had thought it might be fun to help me in this silly out of towner, middle-aged-man’s quest to drive well beyond the city limits in search of the third dry lake bed on the left, miles from nowhere, some wickedly out-of-place in search of his newly acquired online chat-room raver pals… You know, the kids with glo sticks… the kids who’d be all doped up.
We got to the dry lakebed in good time but it felt like hours trying to actually find the kids away out there in the middle of the third dry lake bed on the left. We eventually stumbled upon twenty or so of them dancing alongside a make-shift Jeep-Trunk stereo-DJ super-sound-system-setup. All of ‘em fully into their glo-stick juggling and shimmy-shaking while marvelling at the tall tale I spun describing how me, this Dick Van Dyke suited Canadian fella and some sweet woman named Alice had managed to maneuver through the dessert and get an none too macho Mustang up and over the ruts on the roads leading to the dry lake so we could crash their little private party out in the pitch black middle of the night in the absolute middle of nowhere somewhere north of the City of LA out on a freaking dry lake bed under the… freakishly beautiful stars – We were kind of surprised we’d made it ourselves I guess… and pretty much, after about ten minutes turned right around, and headed back to the city.
It's fondly I recall the quiet ride back to LA. A couple of lost “once were kids” in an open car, laughing to themselves a little bit; not really talking, likely totally exhausted and dying to get back to wherever it was they could simply shower and jump into bed. It didn’t go as you might be imagining… I dropped her at some lonely suburban semi-bungalow out along the freeway. She pointed me in the direction of my hotel in Santa Monica and thanked me for a wonderful evening. I sped away halfway back from totally exhausted and thinking how lucky I was to meet such a wonderfully nice person… Thinking of the stars that hung so damned close over that dry lakebed you felt the need to put the top up on your open car lest bang your forehead on one of them. That totally rough rutted road had ruined my semi-slick not too tough or macho at all Mustang convertible. I n the morning I found it completely covered in dry lakebed sand (luckily with no dents in the paint job). I cringe wondering just how close I’d come to ruining a moment by dropping a silly line in an attempt to manoeuvre the night were it wasn’t meant to go… just a nice drive back to my hotel room, to shower and sleep and then hit the AOL chat boards again to find out where best to look for “more kids” and to find next night’s wild-n-fun goofy little party…
…I found them. Or perhaps… they found me.
Is it just wasted years after ones first marriages? How many years, how much is wasted on the wrong people? I don’t know how many fellas I know who wake up to find the girl they’d love forever just up and left them. Knowing they’re not perfect, they’re left wondering just which flaw of theirs triggered the departure? Was it the getting up every day to go to work to pay for all this shit? Was it the scraping all the energy left at the end of one’s day to show a little attention to her dumbest of problems? Maybe it was that you’re only able to muster enough interest to appear semi motivated while kind of enjoying a weekend doing exactly what she wanted to do (?) Which ever holy-horrible flaw it was, there they go, these first wives, off to do much better, you… ? …what were you left with? A strange night under the stars… ? …maybe, if you’re lucky I guess.
The next night I followed the instructions I’d found on the AOL chats and drove all alone a way way south of the City; down to the Orange County arena, a place where they’d throw the annual orange growers agricultural show… More kids, more dance music, ecstasy… a handful of it.
In this period of my bizarre post marriage stupor, I’d developed a pretty strong hankering for MDMA. I call it a hankering as, I really don’t think one can really be addicted to what I called those, strong drugs, mushrooms, acid and e. Oh, I’m sure the addiction researchers would argue, so I won’t. I’ll just admit that my wife leaving left a big hole and a bigger chunk of time that I decided to fill with the chemical concoctions of the day. In the waning days of the 1990s in Toronto the rave scene was a raging, money was beginning to flow again, my company was beginning to grow. It really did look like my company could “make a go” so away I went as if that was a certainty. Without a wife to pin me down or demand a purpose… she was off doing way better without me and I’d convinced myself I was better off for it.
A kinda bizarre or maybe just sadly funnier part of this story… Just how did I arrange to end up with a handful of ecstasy in LA? I certainly wasn’t going to risk having to find the baggy-pants kid with the floppy hat who sold the shit while at the same time trying to find my way around down there so, I brought some with me. Yes, over the border.
The night before flying down, here was me, drinking at the kitchen table emptying vitamin B capsules, dumping half the powder out, mixing in the ecstasy and closing them back up in a fashion that made them appear untampered with. Like I was any good at this. “Um, ya officer, I don’t know how these schedule A narcotics got mixed into the vitamin B bottle in my shaving kit. Can I go to LA now? I’m scheduled to meet the Former, First Lady Prime Minister of Canada tomorrow…” Wouldn’t that have been fun. (My real problems at the border would actuall happen decades late.)… A smuggled handful of ecstasy spent driving the LA freeways in a rented Mustang on the way to and from the Orange County arena. A divorced guy in convertibles in LA, cruising the freeways, can there truly be a bigger asshole?
The next day, Sunday morning, oh those glorious Sunday mornings after those nights of total debauchery… it’s like looking for something you weren’t ever really meant to find…
I returned the car. It looked like shit after being driven through the dessert, through the dry lakebed then off to the Orange County. I think I’d put close to 700 miles on it. How many of those spent zooming over the LA freeways high as a kite, who knows, it’s LA, and, isn’t high-as-kite, divorced-guy zipping around in Mustang convertibles exactly what these freeways were built for? Driving around, believing I was suffering my midlife crisis, not knowing the crisis that was my life at the time was nowhere near halfway done.
I had a whole day after dropping off the car. A whole day, now on Venice Beach to ready myself for the red eye back to Toronto. My objective was to board the plane with the reddest eyes possible. I had a nice lunch, soaked up sun n’ wine on some patio and then wandered the boardwalk.
If you’ve been, you’d likely agree that Venice beach is a pretty nice and funky market-bizarre filled with loads of wonderfully left-coast whack jobs. Crystals, the ancient art of tie-dye, roller skaters and old rock posters. I found a guy giving shiatsu in the shade of one of the palms and promptly bought an hour. If you’ve ever been to Venice Beach after a full day and night of dropping MDMA (along the freeway)… if this shiatsu wasn’t the best shiatsu I’d ever gotten, I just don’t know. The guy was massaging beyond my muscle and right through to my soul. One of those sessions where you had to grab your breath after each squeeze and pull. After he was done his magic it was all I could do to sit all alone, under the palms for hopefully the rest of my entire life… he snuck up on me.
Mr. Massage dude came up to me as I was sitting under the palm tree, “Dude, it seemed like you really enjoyed that?” I did, really. “Wanna try something different?” Before I could get too worried, or excited about what he might be suggesting he told me how he’d been training as an acrobatic shiatsu-ist. His training wasn’t complete, and he was always having trouble finding willing vict… participants. He thought I’d make a great candidate considering how relaxed I’d felt while he was squeezing me into another plane of existence… “…are you up for it?” …of course, I was.
He lay a mat on the grass next to his massage table. I immediately went to lay on it. He stopped me, laid onto it himself, putting his legs in the air. “Put your buttocks on the balls of my feet”, what the…? “Sit your ass on the bottom of my feet.”
I leaned back, with my butt resting on his feet as he instructed. He told me I was going to have to trust him. That I needed to do exactly as I was told and above all else, totally relax. Somehow, he managed to hypnotize me I guess as I soon found myself laying on the bottoms of his feet, floating in space being held there by my ass on his feet and his hands as he shiatsu’d my shoulders. Thinking back, it must have looked ridiculous but holy fuck it felt great.
Next thing you know he completes some sort of circus toss and I’m directly upside down. I’ve lost any memory of how he was holding me in this position and, he’s still fucking massaging me. Eventually I’m full 180 and coming down the other way. He tells me to put my feet on the ground but to remain bent over, like I’m bowing to some Japanese emperor’s daughter or something. He tells me to, ever so slowly begin to stand up straight while all the time, he’s still massaging this and that. When I was finally fully upright, I felt a full two inches taller, like I’d just returned from space. A rockstar astronaut on the beach, alone with Mr. Shiatsu Super-Guru on Venice Beach.
Is there really anything quite like the first get away immediately after losing one’s first wife? Opposite of say the honeymoon itself it feels like an absolute ending. As much as the wedding feels so much like beginning of everything, the journey that feels like it’s the start of something that’s forever. Fucking youngsters off on the adventure, dreaming, hoping it will be a little bit like what they’d been sold. Something like their parents had going. Like the Beave’s parents (for you older folks), before TV parents all bacame widows and widowers. Sigh, our parents’ generation. You know, that generation just wouldn’t quit a bad marriage. No Matter what.
I mean, we knew what was coming. In the back of our minds, we saw what the sixties, the seventies and eighties really had done to concept of marriage. The easy outs, the “let’s not bother to fix this” it’s all about me ethos. Who really knows, it all may have been totally manufactured, and, by design.
In those first years after the first marriage, how can one know how much more life there’s left to live. As you lick the deepest wound you’ve ever been blown, you’d never know how vast the life after that first marriage would be. For me it was two more half-hearted attempts. Marriages without all the bells and whistles per se. Don’t get me wrong, both were, in their own moment at the times time greatest of loves I’d ever had known. The latter even gifted me the greatest love a fella could ever know when she gave me my son.
…on the beach, tired and tumbled. Staring alone watching the sun actually set where it’s meant to set, into the Pacific a way out west. Having a final glass of wine or two… well rubbed and relaxed, how could I possibly know what was coming. I was still licking the wounds of the then deepest of cuts.
I had just visited the First Female ex-Prime Minister of Canada. Business was looking good if not absolutely great. The wheels had come off my personal life, but there were no kids to abandon or houses to cut in half (or is it houses to abandon and kids to cut in half). As I watched that sun set and readied myself for a cab ride out to LAX. I’m pretty sure I thought that things were going to be OK, that it would all be downhill n smooth sailing from here… to, there…
I woke up again this morning with the sun in my eyes When Mike came over with a script surprise A mafioso story with a twist A “To Wong Foo, Julie Newmar” hitch Get your ass out of bed, he said: I’ll explain it on the way But we did nothing Absolutely nothing that day And I’ll say What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? I got the fever for the flavor The payback will be later Still I need a fix And the girls on the bus kept on laughing at us As we rode on the ten down to Venice again Flaring out the G-funk Sipping on juice and gin Just me and a friend Feeling kinda groovy Working on a movie (Yeah right!) But we did nothing Absolutely bupkis That day And I’ll say What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? With my mind on my money and my money on my, beer beer! I know that life is for the taking So I’d better wise up And take it quickly (Yeah one more time at trader vics) Some men there wanted to hurt us And other men Said we weren’t worth the fuss We could see them all bitching by the bar About the fine line Between the rich and the poor Then Mike turned to me and said What do you think we got done son? We’ve got a conclusion And I guess that’s something So I ask you What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. At twenty six? I got the fever for the nectar The payback will be later Still I need a fix (We need to fix you up Call me monday And maybe we’ll fix it all up) L.A. L.A. L.L.A. L.A.
What indeed was I doing drinking in LA, at… thirty something? What had I done to deserve this? Oh if I’d only known… but that’s for… absolutely bupkis that day…
- Tear it All Down Man (part one)
(What if the lies you’ve been told were told by you?)
If I claim that I no longer subscribe to the common globe earth hypothesis, must I then believe the world is flat? I mean come on, really? Are there only two possibilities? I am more than comfortable believing that what we have been taught is fake phoney and false. Do I have my own theories? Sure, but none too definite at this time. Am I obligated to describe my theories before I deny my belief in those I’ve being told? No. I’m quite happy bouncing from one idea to another and to yet another one still. There’s a joy in speculating and imagining all sorts of possibilities. If I can solidify any one of these notions into a form solid enough to enjoy a good conversation around then, all the better. Why settle on knowing for certain when, for a fact we know there is so much more than we could ever possibly know and not know. Certainty is the end of opportunity.
Releasing oneself from the burden of beliefs frees you from the constant demands of always having to be right. What use is there in always being right? If at the very root, the source of what we know is now in question? Isn’t considering the possibility of an even greater truth being out there thrilling? I once heard it said that “belief is the enemy of knowing”; “I don’t know” seems a better place to be than say, “I’m right here”. I’m certain of one thing only, there’s like way more to all this, than that… man.
(If you recall, your opinion of me is really none of my business.)
There’s nothing I enjoy more than being labelled incorrectly. “You’re a fascist a Republican, you’re deplorable!” I can only imagine this as being as glorious as being misgendered. “You subscribe to daft conspiracies, you’ve obviously no interest in the facts and quite frankly, you’ve become unhinged.”
There is indeed a hinge that one can swing this idea of sanity upon, the belief that there is indeed a truth. Maybe I’ve fallen into the dia-dorable, post-modernist trap and deconstructed things I’ve needed far too many times to still believe in. This nonsense known as relativism. I see no reason to abandon everything in pursuit of nothing. I simply prefer to seek a truth I know I’ll never know. Believing in truth while knowing I’ll never truly know it was quite possibly the greatest step I have taken towards finding that truth.
(And then, what of love?)
So everything you know is not what it seems. Everything is left in question. Yet you maintain there’s a truth you will never know? How is that fair? …Oh, it’s fair alright
(to be continued… maybe)
- How Blind Are You?
I’ll admit to being a bit uneasy the first time I got a disabled call, my screen reading “THE PASSENGER IS BLIND”. My life long training in basis humanity did kick in, I mean, quite naturally. Pulling up to the apartment block door, I found Ron staring into that space that blind folks stare into already waiting, just at the top of the steps. I got out, walked around the car, announced that I was his cab and instinctively asked “How blind are ya, and how much help are you gonna need?” Ron told me that he was totally blind and said with a smile in his voice, would take any help I would give him. I asked him what the best way to help might be, he told me that letting him put his hand on my shoulder and steering him to the railing of the stairs and the cab door would be best.
I don’t think there could’ve been a better blind man to have as my first “differently abled” passenger than Ron. Asking him if he’d been blind all his life, Ron told me it was the result of a gunshot wound in his 20s. I mentioned how I’d had one partially blind friend and how I thought it was rather silly how she’d been given free movie pass to Cineplex by the government or some blind agency.
“How do you feel about deaf people?”
Ron was indifferent towards the partially blind, was uneasy with some of the perks he himself was privy to; had no real issues with deaf people but did have a beef with a few of his blind friends back in the apartment complex… “The bastards come down and spill things on my new carpeting and mess up my freshly painted walls… and don’t apologize!” … “Funny, I wouldn’t think that’d matter that much too you, Ron?” … We had a few good chuckles on the way to the beer store and back. The pantomime at the Beer Store was as good as an old Vaudevillian skit. I hadn’t shopped at an Ontario Beer store in 20 years. Ron had himself a good laugh as I towed him, arm on shoulder to the “bottle return” counter by mistake, hmmm the blinded by booze leading the blinded by gunshot into the beer store… or some such nonsense.
I’ve met some great folks and had some great conversation and continue to be wowed by just how well most people faced with disabilities do. How they step up and adapt to conditions I shudder to think I might one day be afflicted with. My trip with Ron was a relief in proving to myself that my own sensitivity training has and continues to, for the most part worked for me.
Well before “cabbie training” I came to employ, what I like to call it the very direct “so how’d you end up in the wheelchair?” approach. The “otherwise abled” folks I’ve met seem to appreciate cutting through the mamby-pamby bullshit and getting on with a good conversation. Of course, being genuinely interested in another’s affliction never hurts. As with most of my fares, the blind, deaf, and legless and all the various shades of crazy people I drive around town do so often put a smile on my face… and simply remind me that with those who’ve been handed a bum deal, “to be of good service” is pretty much the best place to start… Pretty much true for the folks pretending not to be disabled.
- I Will Not Become Victim 80,000,001 of the Chinese Communist Party
So, weeks before all this quarantine shit got started, I’d been feeling kind of short of breath as, my lungs never really did come back fully after quitting smoking. A few years back I was having breathing problems and found out I had walking pneumonia… I was going to check that out… three weeks ago. That plan got nixed with the current emergency.
Late last week, I’m noticing, and being told by patients, residents and nurses that the hospital really isn’t that busy and that contrary to what you might think, Emerge is a bit of a ghost town. I figure, this might be a good opportunity, I mean it really might be a good idea to know what’s going on with my lungs during a respiratory pandemic, right? Maybe popping in to find out I had or didn’t have walking pneumonia again, might be kinda prudent, i.e. not a selfish thing to do… right?
Yesterday afternoon, I pulled into the Emergency unit at our local Hospital and, indeed, I was, the only person there. I told them straight up, I have little reason to suspect infection and that I was there simply to rule out the walking pneumonia. I waited all of five minutes to be shuffled into the ward. I was asked to do a little deep breathing while the attendant, likely a resident, was listening and an x-ray later, no walking pneumonia, great… but wait! We’d like to test you anyway, seeing how you have one symptom. This was a surprise, a nice bonus even. I mean what a great time to find out, first in line… a nice casual test at the hospital rather than a few weeks down the road, standing in line half naked at the local hockey arena with 10,000 other half naked coughing zombies, crying babies and old Portuguese grandmothers speed reading their Rosary beads.
Now, you may find it odd, me of all people knocking the President but, sure it’s a little uncomfortable having a swab jammed into your nose and spun while almost kinda touching that thingy that connects the two halves of your brain… I mean it is a bit nasty but, it’s something I would hope a President could bare. Anyhow, I got swabbed, samples bagged, they took my phone number and did I what I was told for a change and went straight home… to wait for the call today.
I’d have to say I’ve had a pretty good life. Growing up in a small town; flunking out of Art School ‘cause, you know (fucking) crayons. Small towns, big cities and bigger cities than that. Running businesses by the seat of my pants and well, taking a few good blows here and there… I’ve got no complaints. The old engine has run pretty hot at times but, the Mexicans didn’t get me as a teenager with their damned ACAPULCO gold, my fellow countryman didn’t bring me down with Molson’s CANADIAN, thems ‘merican hillbillies didn’t git my with their TENNESSEE (so called) Whisky and… those dammed Chinese Commies didn’t get me with their WUHAN flu.
I tested negative, just like on all those other, cough tests…
Well it’s back to work for me, (I am essential after all)… I don’t got no virus, no walking pneumonia… I’m just an old man who’s way outta shape, with a little bit more of the good life ahead of me… just like vast majority of you guys!
God bless.
- When You Need the Police in Seconds…
I refuse to discuss guns in the context of crime unless you allow me to address the crimes that governments have perpetrated against their own citizens over all these eons. Shall we list the number of people killed for the sake of an errant policy or a misplaced ideology? The most heinous crimes of the last century have been committed by governments, against their own citizens, in the name of the good and well after the guns have all been confiscated. The question is not if government will turn on you, it’s when. Government demanding you disarm is a pretty good indication that when, is soon.
I’ve completed the required safety and handling courses. I have the proper licenses. My guns are stored in a manner that far exceeds the current legislation. I transport them to the range on occasion essentially to maintain familiarity with operation and safety. I’ve taught my son to neither fear nor romanticize these weapons. My objective is to clearly separate the fantasy guns from the real ones, the purpose for which he is developing a deep appreciation. One day it’s my hope he’ll come to understand the true power these weapons we have responsibly locked away truly wield; the power that is liberty, personal sovereignty embodied within truly emancipated citizenship.
Question: Why do you need a motorcycle that goes 235 KPH?
Answer: You don’t owe me an explanation.
- Little Green Tomatoes
Proving herself fearless and saving me from another potential “threat of police call” moment immediately endeared me to this young lady. Her boyfriend showed up an hour or so later, ending any opportunity I had to make, one of my patented, usually wildly unsuccessful pick up manoeuvres on her. Sally, JP and I would become best buddies. As it turned out we lived on parallel blocks, a street or two apart. They started hanging at my bar, we started getting invites to hang with them, in their backyard.
These backyard hangouts were pretty outrageous booze infused affairs. Both Sally and JP shared my pleasure in pushing things as far as they’d go then going a bit further, a lot further. One night as we were approaching one of the many lines in the sand we’d likely end up crossing, for some drunken reason, I decided it was time to scale the garden wall that separated their back yard from some other lucky Brooklynite .
A Brooklyn backyard is centered in… A block of four, five or six story turn of the century low rise walk ups ringing a block. It’s an almost airtight, walled in courtyard. These courtyards are partitioned further for each property; creating a nest of walled gardens to be enjoyed by the ground floor occupant of each building. My fifth-floor apartment overlooked a very nice courtyard, lots of trees. Sally and JP lucked out and had use of theirs. It was pretty large and had an open chunk of dirt that hadn’t been paved. Paving these yards was common as building owners attempt to keep dirt down, as well as burrowing rodent and their associated feral cat populations seem to like digging if left open dirt… Sally and JP has a chunk of dirt; they had dirty rodents and feral cats all at their disposal right there in their own backyard. They seized this as an opportunity to plant tomatoes.
How lucky does one have to be to be an urban farmer in Brooklyn… ? …I was quite jealous; even if JP would often remind me how annoying the rats and cats where. We may actually have been talking about these cats when I drunkenly decided it was time to scale the wall. Of course, to get to this wall, I had to walk through their garden. Of course, as soon as I got a foot off the ground up the wall, the old trellis that seemed safe enough at the time to climb broke away and I tumbled backwards, right onto Sally and JP’s tomato plants. Of course, Sally and JP weren’t just a little angry and, twenty odd years later I still haven’t heard the end of my destroying their precious tomato plants. My key defence in pleading forgiveness was that, given it was spring, there weren’t barely any tomatoes yet, just little green nubs where tomatoes would be one day. This defence never did hold water and, of course is the underpinning-concept for this entire story.
Sally and I agreed pretty much on one thing, and one thing mostly, that getting shit-faced and doing drugs was indeed, a good time. We likely disagreed on everything else but had a fabulous time getting shit-faced, doing drugs and arguing over it all the same. JP and I would argue on occasion, but his advanced intellectual prowess, gained while studying to, and becoming a lawyer usually left me at a disadvantage what with his use of facts and logic n’ all. Sally and I could go at it though, full on moron, and we still do! Partisan politics, women’s issues, the whole black, white, thing abortion, you name it. Sally and I can take opposite sides of any argument and kick the shit out of each other over it. I’ll be damned if I won’t always love her for her ability to pull up into our little cul-du-sacs at the end of an argument, sigh and remind me that I’m a shithead and how much she loves me for that… Who doesn’t like having friends you can agree with? Having a friend who you agree with on next to nothing who will remain a friend is to be cherished, forever.
Abortion was one of those favoured arguments. This was the good old days when one could still argue things like gay marriage and abortion. There were a pile of nuances, blind alleys and back peddled attacks Sally and I could pitch n forth at one another over abortion. I won’t argue on her behalf, I’ll just leave her position as, no if, no ands, no buts, it’s a woman’s choice. My position was… well let’s just start with “choice”.
Of all course woman are afforded the same choices in life as any other human, in this case the other humans being men. I’d like to see men afforded the same. I argue that excluding the man in the abortion debate, outright, so matter of factly as many women do is repugnant. My own abortion experience has left a sad echo that continues to ring through the key moments in my life. I didn’t brood over the decision, but I am forced to revisit my role in my agreement to have this abortion. Assuming it weighs any less on my psyche because I wasn’t a physical participant, well it cheapens what’s actually at stake here, no? I’ve revisited my decision in this in quiet times, a decision that has snuck up on me more than once, when least expected. It crossed my mind as I enjoyed my son’s birth, and again on that sad day when I watched my father die. Framing abortion as solely a women’s issue is, inhuman.
A woman’s control over her own body is, sacrosanct. How could I not agree with this given my beliefs concerning forced medication, the right to try and the right to die. The difficulties undoubtedly lay in the snipping, clipping and cutting our way through the rights of two separate beings while conjoined. This seems to me, the whole of the problem. I mean, after you dismiss the grand obfuscation, the heinous distraction of attempting to measure when life begins, all that’s really left is the simplicity of balancing one life over another.
Interestingly enough, current trend towards extending abortion rights right up to entry into and even exit from the birth canal seems a beginning to allow for truer focus on the formality of the “when does life begin” question. These decisions to allow post birth abortion are clearing up this distraction quickly. If we are granting women the right to “terminate” our children right up to and including immediately after birth why quibble over any belief other than life beginning at inception? Likewise, as preemies continue to survive outside the womb earlier and earlier, doesn’t the notion that sustainability outside the mother holds less water in the argument? How close are we to some damned scientists growing a baby outside of its mother? It’s not like anyone truly believes that life begins by crawling through a wet tunnel and out of a dark hole. I firmly believe, instinctively even, that life begins at inception, that the life begins at X-moment argument is nothing more than a deflection, a proposition attempting to raise the woman’s status over the child’s during their conjoined predicament?
Here’s where I stake my claim to being as emotionally, spiritually and intellectually responsible for the creation of new life as any woman I’ve chosen to participate in this with. The creation of life, beyond simply fucking is the most human of all acts. Describing it wholly as medical procedure is abhorrent. Diminishing creation to its having some measurable beginning and a mechanical ending decided upon by the whims of a teenaged mother, well perhaps we have lost our way. Perhaps the biblical rulings on the joining of man and woman for this act does actually have merit, perhaps the Victorian prudishness we applied to the rules of bonding, had its uses. Obviously leaving the responsibility of fucking to stoned boys and drunk little girls is… (shhh, not the best idea)
It’s easy to see how anger so quickly enters the argument over abortion. It’s fundamental. The tearing apart of the two sexual components of our species at times seems on purpose. It’s the ultimate divide if one wants to conquer and destroy a culture. Separating men from women, having them believe that each hold separate concerns in the creation of new life, that their differences outweigh the differences needed to create a completed species is in many ways the definition of pure evil.
Does a couple have the right to terminate a pregnancy, kill the child and get on with their own lives? I doubt any real couple would. Would a woman, if left alone? Obviously if that’s where she has found herself, alone, this choice should be hers, and God can only hope she makes it wisely. But in this situation, let’s never forgive the pale shadow of a man, inhuman as he is for walking away from his ultimate responsibility.
Sadly, wisdom is not something a lot of very young women have, less so little boys. Enticing our children with the thrill of rubbing their genitalia together, although timeless, ancient even, seems all the more commodified, productized today. It’s been turned into another jolts per second act, like a dance step mere slivers step away from whackity whacking off to PornHub. I’m not pleading for the return to Victorian morality or good clean Christian living but, can’t we do better? As parents, can’t we somehow instil upon our kids the horror of having to kill a baby vs. the absolute joy of having one when you want it? Can we not return to teaching boys to become men and girls to fighting off boys who think abusing themselves and girls is somehow a path to this manhood?
I don’t recall if on any of these points Sally and I agreed or if any had really been made as stated. I mean I guess we agreed on the woman’s right, but she likely balked on my demanding we circumvent this convenient euphemism and acknowledge, killing is killing. I would almost be certain she’d want to put a different spin on the beginning of life. Given how new the notion is, I doubt we ever really argued over the horrors of killing you child as their head started to crown from within one’s vagina. Chances are we will enjoy this conversation again one day. She’ll call me as she does from time to time, we’ll get caught up on the lives of our kids and the ins and outs of whatever convulsions our current relationships have taken… Maybe she’ll bring it up or maybe me. Maybe I’ll start our next abortion argument simply be saying, “Sally, I love you and… I’ve always wanted to say… I am so sorry, remember that night I climbed you wall and… well… I am so sorry I murdered those fucking little green tomatoes of yours. You know the one’s that weren’t there quite yet. You know, the tomatoes that could have been… tomatoes one day” that oughta get us going.
- Rich Fuckers
Say for example, that rat bastard Bezos; how much business does he drive at each of his suppliers, at each of the sub retailers he supports? What is the measure of all the delivery agencies Amazon does business through. What’s the value of all the construction work they’ve purchased for the building of their facilities and mechanical system… each person employed, how much does each of them spend and on what? Like rings on a tree, layers of the onion, what are the ripple effects of each of these billionaires?
How much greater is the value of say a Bezos, his companies and all their moving parts in relation to say a Buffet who, more or less, makes his money by making money. Of course, what is the economic value of the companies he invests in, and for whom this investment is life giving? Are logistics companies more valuable than finance companies? What about real estate developers and all the hardware and bodies they set in motion and the economies each building spins?
Perhaps this already an area of study. Have we harnessed the algorithms and created the formulas to make these measurements and I’ve simply somehow missed them? It would seem to me, given how much we hate our billionaires, someone somewhere would be generating this information to defend them, others would be doing so to further attack them. Money, markets and the money makers. Is the simple value of man’s assets the measure of his value? Or is the total impact each of these billionaires have on us, each of their suppliers, employees, and customers not the true measure of their value to us?
Oh and as for this list of the “richest men on earth”; if believe that this list include no Rothschilds (et al). Then you’re probably not paying attention. The truly richest families on earth, don’t want you to know who they are.
- Convocation 2020
First off, prepare yourselves for 2025. This will be your first official five-year homecoming. You should descend on this little town like a jet fighter, rockets red blaring, guns firing… you should be ready to burn this mother fucking place to the ground (relax, townies, I’m referring to campus and the non-civilian parts of the student-ghetto). I remind them that in five years they’ll be more than well off enough to fund a river of beers and a mountain of red Solo Cups… “why’s that?”
Well kiddo (I rarely call ‘em kiddo, but) well junior, you’re graduating into total uncertainty… And uncertain times can be the absolute best of times to find your “way in”. Look at it this way, a few months back you thought you had locked up that certain internship, your predetermined spot in some cubicle somewhere, somewhere at the start of the same old path. There’s a very good chance, that path ain’t going to be there any longer and that, well that’s total fucking liberation. If you want it to be. (You’ve got a built-in excuse to tell the folks who just paid for this education that, you’re taking a different route).
Here’s what you do, bucko, start looking for signals, start sniffing around those edges you didn’t consider before because before, you were just sniffing what you thought would be your way along that path. Signals? How are people responding to this endlessly ridiculous “pandemic” nonsense? Think beyond the toilet paper rolls and try and see what people are truly afraid of, what they’re missing and what they are muttering most about, under their breath. What businesses will survive, which will die and need to be rebuilt, and even more of interest, try and figure out just what lies are being exposed, and what never really mattered to begin with.
Here’s an exercise for you. The other day, the President said something that got the mainstream press in a lather and lead the knuckle dragging mouth breathers to go nutty on the socials with their half-witted humour. Now, you can join in have a little fun trying to prove you’re just as smart as the knuckle draggers, or, you can take a glorious whiff and seize an opportunity to sniff… Remember, regardless of what you think, the President of the United States of America sits atop a mountain of information, has access to an intelligence network that us mortals cannot begin to comprehend and, well you might not like or respect the way he words things but… this President, unlike the politicians, actually knows something and wants to say it.
It’s funny, his “unique” speaking style reminds me of those moments when you’re trying to get too much out at once, non-starting thoughts and overlapping references. You can see these one of two ways, sheer stupidity or, genuine honesty. Now, if you choose the latter here’s the advantage.
Why do you look down upon someone or something? Because you think you’re better, or somehow above them, right? How do you learn anything if you already feel superior? You don’t. Why mock someone or something you don’t totally understand? Did you build a small real estate empire in Manhattan when Manhattan was flat on its back? Where you once primed to buy the Holiday Inn Franchise out from under the Marriott empire, then make millions in the act of finally declining the deal? Did you build a world class brand or ever, you know decide to run a political campaign to become the most powerful man on earth, and like, win? Someone’s always done something you haven’t, so there’s something to be learned, from anyone… and everyone.
I have this conversation, or variations there in at least once a day, a dozen times a week. The end of the school year, although the beginning of my dead zone is one of the nicest of moments in this town, doing this gig. Love ‘em or hate ‘em most of these little jerks are pretty good kids. Queen’s University, the college and RMC do filter and deliver us the more enthusiastic kids and, there is nothing quite as fun as talking to someone about something they can’t wait to start doing… working!
It will be an interesting time for these kids. Who knows what shape it’ll take, but everything is about to change. Alongside my attempt to fire them up, I’ve assigned them the task of making some good strong opening moves in this, once again, new world in order to make a little room for my boy, who’ll be along soon…
Sniff, look, listen and learn. For God’s sakes, you’re 20, don’t be the dead brick know-it-all, do NOT get in your own way by believing you are right. Definitely don’t follow the knuckle dragging morons into the feedback loop of anger, hatred and fear… it’s all right there for these kids, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. They are not the cry-baby safe space dwelling morons you’ve been reading about. They are way smart, and while we hide under our beds, they’re going to seize this petrified world… One damned UBER ride to the rail station at a time.
- Dear Insider, Friends
I’ll admit, as many NON-COVIDIANS will, that after prolonged exposure, I am likely more COVID now than I am human. This hasn’t manifested itself outwardly in any visible or physical sense. We’ve no marking, no sores, our posture and demeanour would likely not appear much different than your own. This being said, we may appear to have a little more pep in our step as, unlike your now more sedentary lifestyle, us OUTSIDERS have adopted an almost Shwa-da-vee attitude to it all, a sort of come what may demeanour as we zip freely around the these now empty streets.
Some of you might say that this cavalarity may be our downfall. Obviously this happy-go-luckiality may indeed lead to the end of this nascent OUTSIDER “rule” of the outsides, the end to our perhaps almost complete dominance of the out of doors. You should be aware though that many of the essentials among us are already calculating the uptick in their lives, and now that there’s less a clutter of human wants, and needs are seeing new paths to control and power. You can already see some of the more ambitious out here securing control of the food supply, transportation routes, medical facilities and the much-discussed distribution channels, through which ALL of your insider needs now flow.
I wouldn’t worry too too much. Not all of us essentially Outside NON-COVIDIANS hold you in that much disdain. Oh sure, our annoyance in your sending your minions out to close our parks and trails and fencing off playgrounds and skateparks has angered many, but the talk of setting you alight and burning you in your homes, has pretty much subsided.
Many of us have begun planning what indeed we may want to use you for as you begin to emerge from deep within the safety of your homes. We know that you’ll eventually have to come out for more than just food, and to sneer and make our lives miserable. Our plans have ranged from organizing work parties of insiders to repair our roads, possibly expand our infrastructure. We know that there’s a few of you who have taken your inside time to expand your knowledge, knowledge us NON-COVIDIANS may use to explore new technologies that will make our outside world, even better… for us.
So, insiders, friends, fear not. This world is spinning round quite nicely without you. When the time comes to slowly inch your doors open, and peer ever so meekly into what you fear may be the post-apocalyptic wasteland you read of in your books and watched on your moving picture screens… We’ll be out here, keeping it all running, working for that day when you, the insider will be working… for us… us, your Brave New NON-COVIDIAN, OUTSIDER overlords.
See you soon.
- I’m NOT Angry
For the umpteenth time already. Why (the fuck) would I argue with someone I do not love? Why would I bother to try (in vain) to change your mind, if I didn’t respect how you think? Why would I bother if I didn’t want to know your opinion, examine how you came up with them and tested how firmly you held these ideas of yours.
Over the I’ve learned very little from those I’ve agreed with whole heartedly. Even during arguments where my opinions do not change, they have been either hardened, tested or threatened. The latter leading me to re-examine these ideas. I enjoy pleasant conversation with like-minded souls as much as I do a little verbal sparring. I’d much rather loose and argument than hold on to an idea I’ve outgrown or that you can convince me of being fallacious.
So…
Don’t be an idiot, fight dammit! AND remember, belief is the enemy of knowing.
- Am I even allowed to say this?
You are not racists. I am not a racist, nor are “they”. The system is not racist. Am I a bigot, a cad a sexist? We are being divided into smaller and smaller groups and then pitted against one another. It’s pathetic, it’s deplorable and... it’s painfully obvious. Once you see it.
Rather than subconsciously participate, go along. Rather than being afraid my sometimes-feisty nature has demanded I respond in the contrary. Rather than fight back face to face; rather than taking to full brunt head on… I’m trying to tackle all this obliquely. Swimming upstream more often only exhausts one’s efforts. Kick sideways, throw ‘em off. A simple semi-agreeable nod or a gesture of reciprocation can easily put them on their heels just long enough to make one’s temporary retreat.
It's never a surrender but rather a regrouping. The battle is eternal. They’ll never stop fighting. When their objective is to win at all cost; make yours, simply… to survive long enough to fight another battle. It’s never over.
- A Separate Category of Acceptance
With this one act, they are dooming future black and indigenous Doctors to a suspicion that they may not be “top doctors”. If my son was dying of Leukaemia, wouldn’t I feel more secure bringing him to see a white or Asian doctor? A doctor who I could be certain had met the original med school standards and was accepted based on merit? Even more so, was it now even more difficult for the white or Asian doctors to obtain one of the now fewer spots in med school left over for non-quota-mandated students? Furthermore, can I now be even more certain the white or Asian doctor graduated with top grades and not because he met a mandated quota reuirement by your university simply so that institution could appear virtuous.
You are doing the community and med students, particularly Black and Indigenous med students a horrible disservice here. You know this, everything I’ve said here is well documented but you’re doing it anyway because you are frightened by the mob. Promotion on the grounds of bias, in any way shape or form weakens the systems and denies us all the best, most competent and deserving.
- Three Ways to Leave
- A Lot to Unpack
- Quarantine Taxi-Cabbie
…one of the half dozen or so drivers’ licence-less lady Saudi medical-residents coming off a 26-hour rotation ...a couple off to buy a hairless guinea pig. A law student heading down to one of the dozen or so cannibis retailer to buy pot... Then… another fourth year, off to Calgary to begin the new life on the oil patch and a couple, fleeing their Palm Spring winter home to continue their “quarantine” in their summer place out on Howe Island.
Basically, my “quarantine” … ? …business as fucking usual... it’s nice to be needed
- I Will Not Tell You
- On Sanctimony
Is it born of an over abundance of arrogance? Maybe it’s a malady of the pig-headed. It’s definitely a prevalent condition found in those who’ve had enough education, maybe a bit too much and have somehow decided they’re smarter because they know more about… you name it.
Is it, do we call it a condition that someone might slip in and out of; grow out of? Have you ever witnessed a sanctimonious pig transform into, say a more empathetic, caring perhaps even open-minded soul? I’ve never remained close to anyone carrying around even an ounce of sanctimony long enough to see any such transformation. Maybe it’s the unceremonious nature of our splitting ways but, I rarely even come across arrogant pricks years after our most recent separation. It’s my honest belief, they just remain the same heartless, all-knowing butt faced goons for the balance of their miserable little lives. I’m sure they do manage to find either kindred souls or at least some loser willing to remain close to them. My two biggest concerns with sanctimony are, hoping to come across as few of them as possible and overcoming the nagging suspicion that I may indeed be one myself.
- You will NOT be Saved. You Will SOON Be Dead
You are going to die. I am going to die. Our children will die eventually. As will their children. Making us all miserable in order to shave a few years off the inevitable will (and did) just make matters worse. There will (and was) be anger. There will (and was) resentment and mistrust. The “process” has proven far more difficult to “restart” than it would have been to run it with, even a skeleton crew (it would never have gotten to that).
Every last single thing done during the “pandemic” was wrong, ill advised and poorly implemented. I believe this to be the unimpeachable truth. We were lied to. More lives were destroyed by these “relief/mitigation” efforts than will ever be lost by the virus itself. Of course, the numbers of those who died from the disease rather than the treatments was far greater and will be debated for years. The only question that remains for me… Just how intentional was all this? Pick from any one of a half dozen motives; the easier answer for me. This was all done by design.
- Happy INDEPENDENCE Day!!!
I think most of my American pals who know me, know exactly how much I love, adore, respect, admire and, did I already say, say love the United States of America. Many of you may be scratching your head of late, wondering why I've been shitting on the head of your sitting President... It’s really quite simple really but, maybe why not, let’s try an old New York Yankees analogy might work best here...
It's like, let’s look at A-Rod; good numbers at bat, OK fielding, but... he's a prima donna, a pretty boy, a whining C H E A T E R. He's cheated on the field, he's cheated off the field, on his wife (the love of his life?)... I was never happy that he was added to our team; AND at such a cost... OH and please, he’s was no Jeter, closer to Giambi, you remember him, that fat, sloppy pill poppin' broken down old slug?
Wholy so, and speaking generally, I’d never judge a team by it's topmost paid player. Likewise, I'd rather nobody Judge my country, Canada by its Prime Minister. That said, and to the original post, I’ll not judge your country, the greatest of nations, the nation of so many of my friends (and now my son), on its choice, good or bad in who is to serves the puppet masters as it’s President.
All I would ever ask of my American friends when it comes to their vote would be to remain, or simply BE INDEPENDENT! - I beg you! The declaration you celebrate on the fourth IS in my humblest opinion simply the most recent and most important step forward for mankind; DON'T step backwards... remain or, simply BE INDEPENDENT, don't let the Madison Avenue scum-bags and paid consultant hacks spin the yarns and makes you trust THUGS simply based on blue and red. Don't get lost in your choice, don't hold yourself to it... you're obliged to "evolve"... Think about it. AND, change your mind from. Time to time. Change stripes even.
You know I love each and every one of you so-called Republican's, declared Democrats, free-wheelin' Libertarian Tea-totin' America First lugs and oh so progressive... Collectivist-Hippies. I love each and every one of you who has stepped past the clutter of casual meme of the day and expressed some form of personal opinion on this and or that; bitched screamed, yelled... heck even whined a bit... Even our arguments prove functionality. Your warranty is intact IF, you THINK INDEPENDENTLY!
BE INDEPENDENT, don't settle, find time in your busy day to sit back, take a good long questioning American look at what was just said and be willing to say, BULLSHIT, it's only ever half right, left of center. STAY FREE of mind, and don't let those who want you to be lazy, treat you to your own laziness... You CAN have only one potato chip, it's YOUR call, not theirs!
I pledge you ONE thing; I will NEVER let my son see his birthright as a some sort of free pass. Wherever we bring him up, he will be taught that he has NO right to live in his homeland unless he's willing to contribute... at least half as much as his mother has contributed in pursuit of her own citizenship. He will be told not only to LOVE America, but know WHY he loves America, as both his mother and father do (for exceptionally different yet absolutely similar reasons I might add) ... And we'll leave the why he Love's America that he comes up with, on his own to his own INDEPENDENT notions...
- Be Adult
- The Bush Stained Years
I must say, even while I was in the throes of my Bush-Stained years, I never felt as though anyone else's opinion was an attack on mine... It was quite obvious to me anyway that, I was open to the idea of coming to a different conclusion and able to believe I might have been wrong about a whole bunch of things. I’m more than willing to accept that perhaps I just haven't given myself the time to research a topic as much as I should have or would have liked.
It's odd how, even just knowing how wrong we've been about so so many things in say, the last thousand, five hundred... even just within the last one hundred years or less. Isn’t it strange that so many of us seem to think the things we've come to believe over the most recent twenty five, fifty or seventy five years, we’re so so absolutely right about?
Another day, another half-baked fuzzy logic argument that we’ll hold onto as scripture, as the absolute truth. At least until...
- I’m Sad for Faggots
In many ways I feel a bit sad for my homosexual pals. At the risk of excluding anyone, many of their most potent symbols, most notably their Pride Flag has become a joke.
This “Critical Theory” based postmodern attack on their most basic concepts and the, can we call it a Derrida’idian dissolving of their language, terminolgy and meaning has stripped almost everything tangible, meaningful and precious from the arguments around their concern. Harkening back to my old “marketing days” I might warn, attempting to segmenting one’s “message” to as many and most most granular of audiences will ultimately leave you with nothing but muddied waters.
In the end, “not my circus, not my monkeys”. I continue to believe, in the simplest of ways, that human couples are meant to pair off as a man and woman and, if a man wants to pair off with another, or a woman want to pair off with a woman this is none of my business. Peace be upon you.
I will never believe there are more than two sexes or two genders, nor will I ever believe one can change either of these by ingesting pharmaceuticals or cutting off and/or mangling body parts. This personal belief in no way describes my “feelings” towards any poor soul who attempts these changes. Truly, unless you’ve harmed “me or mine”, I’ve no issue with you at all.
I am simply feeling a bit sad for my homosexual pals, both men and women homosexual pals. There’s a lot to be said for… “keeping it simple stupid”.
- Overheard... “If You Torture the Data Long Enough, It Will Confess to Anything.”
How many of these numbers were collected and reported truly? How many dead bodies did you see? How many friends and family members perished? How many times did you embellish your experience to make your life sound more interesting, more dramatic? Were you ever really in any danger or did making yourself believe you were in danger make your feel, I don’t know, more a part of?
Not a single person I know, nor anyone known by a person I know died or was even suspected to have died from this infection. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe people did die. If I’m not mistaken the total global worldwide death count stands somewhere in the neighborhood of six to seven million. Would you rather that number be interpreted as horribly high or, extremely low; irrelevantly low even. It can be interpreted either way. It can be expressed as either depending on what you want your reader to “feel”… I c an start the next paragraph with either a low “anchor number” or a high one. So. I’ll ask, in the end, would you rather this most recent “pandemic” to be a tragedy, a farce or a scam? It can be all three without changing the numbers one iota. Imagine what it can be IF one does fudge the numbers.
- The Last of the Marmora Street Dads
It seemed like forever the Rolf’s five kids. The Navan’s two kids, Collers’ three kids the Johnson’s two kids, the Weaver’s three kids, the Coe’s gang of criminals and us two Gower kids that lived up n’ down old Marmora street just like Dick n Jane and the gang lived up and down Maple Street. Our parents, John, Mary, Becky, Bill, Doris, Dieter, Mavis and Doctor Bill, they weren’t perfect but damn they made it all seem perfectly idealic ! Kids all over the street all day, into the evening until one by one, called home for dinner by mom, yelling from the porch… text book, old school.
The Rolfs place was special even before the pool what with the playhouse the sandbox and the best toys on the entire block! ...and those exotic German lunches served up on the big wooden table to any kid in earshot! Little pickles; toothpaste like tubes of multiflavoured mustards. Bread that ranged from hard to harder and of course… to this day I thank Doris Rolf for instilling in me, an absolute love for liverwurst!
Dieter Rolf... the least scary dad on the block next to Doctor Bill hosted legendary BBQs. He made these stuffed Hamburgers cooked with all the condiments already inside of ‘em... When the Rolf’s got the neighborhood’s first inground backyard pool… well, that was certainly something and pretty much locked in their backyard as the best backyard to be invited over to. The backyard pool and BBQs were Deiter’s Domain... honestly the most welcoming spot on Marmora for... years and years. Its hard to separate Dieter from this backyard. I recall the Rolf;s taking one or two trips to Pennsylvania but, outside that…
Deiter was a good man in the company of good men in a good neighborhood in a good time. It’s extremely sad to see all them good dads all gone. It was an exceptional honour to have known them all!
ADD MORE
- Images Are Power
I’m a huge fan of the “photoshopped” image. Its message usually so blatant and easy to read. Like an editorial cartoonist, the photo shopper can pack a pretty tight punch into the meaning of their images.
Those photo shoppers who try to trick us by hiding there “edits” can be counted amongst history’s greatest fools as truth always wins and fakery simply will ultimately defrock the fraudster. In other words, if you try to fool us, you will get caught, and you’re trying to fool us will expose you and be the downfall of your agenda. Lying images last no longer than actual lies.
My personal defence against the trickster? Just assume every picture is faked in one way or another. Almost all picture used to describe a political narrative are staged; the background and props carefully selected to tell the story wanted to be told. Hours have been spent selecting the right picture, even more hours deciding on how to crop the selected image. I’ve known field photographers who’ve assured me that image of theirs that were printed in that morning’s paper, was nowhere near a portrayal of the story that unfolded in front of their lens the night before. The truth they captured, simply abandoned cropped and exchanged for what had happened in the framing selected, that which used to be off to the side... the best defence remains...
The only way to combat dis or misinformation is with more information.
Imagine we weren’t allowed to search through thousands of images of Hitler to find the trickster’s head fake. Imagine all of history’s images, locked away saved for those that spoke only, one truth; gave one side. Imagine if we had found, stumbled upon that one picture then, the one picture that with a basic level of discernment... We can only gain knowledge and an ability to decern by having access to as much information as possible, both real and fake. Having an idea of what’s likely fake is as equally important to having a belief in what might be true. Obviously, and of course, the last thing we want, the last thing our civilization could survive is for there to be a central power, an editor, someone in control of our “knowing” or “believing”... We can no more leave this editing to someone else than to leave the creation of our own belief solely in the hands on, another. Fake away… Given enough information, we will always find you out.
- The Founding Father’s Argument
I'm pretty sure that Tommy Douglas, the last of our so-called Founding Fathers here in Canada; well ok, at least the Founding Father of our over-bloated Universal Healthcare System/Safety-Net; I’m sure he probably was thinking, hey maybe farmer Bob shouldn't lose the farm when he falls from the harvester rather than he was pondering the notion of a multi-million dollar machine that goes "ping" and keeps fat old City-Bob, that Super-Sized Soda slurpin' 700lb chain smoker Bob alive through five heart stint surgeries and a gastral bi-pass…
I expect the "founding fathers" of Social Security or the CPP didn't envision an age of retirement set to Freedom 55 and grandpa driving his JetSki at the 'you're only old as you think you are' for a retirement of almost 40 more years when hw finally passed at the ripe-ol-age of 92; OR grandma wandering the senior health care centre not knowing her name or mine as she celebrated her 115th birthday with the gang of registered nursing assistants make sure she doesn’t tumble over and break a hip on her way to the polls where that same assistant held her hand as she put that x beside the exact politician promised that same nursing assistant that their wages would be increased if elected..
I betcha the crafters of capitalism didn't bank on one single corporation owned by one single pirate owning both the genetic sequence of 75% of the worlds cash crop and the entire staff at the White House at exactly the same time. I bet the writyers o the Federalist Papers didn’t envision the good folks who got our kids into the free 'n open over-crowded classroom thinking that the teachers union would back there members demand that Ritalin only to become the back-bone of the head-in-the-cirrocumuli curriculum as an alternative disciplinary measured methodology when faced with a room full of six year old boys being… rambunctious. Wait… what?
Yup, those founding fathers were pretty near sighted; I doubt they'd once for a moment expected that this constitution thingy of theirs would end up being interpreted by their whining, foot stomping, not-so-great, great, great, great, great, great great grand-spoiled-babies shouting "me me me, and, I want exactly everything I want and I want it right now", after learning all they know about the pols in this year’s elections from some stupid comedian like Jon-Stewart, Colbert or that other imbecil… their entire political opinion being formed in a 5 second remote controlled accidents as they flipped the channel from Snookie upon the "Jersey Shore" to those 8 year old re-runs of the "West Wing" they show at 2am on Channel 12,876's Time-warp-TV… after the evenings episode of "Prayer-TV"
Nope, I betcha that those founding father could only have assumed they were writing that shit down to be used by adults… Sigh… dumbass Foundin' Fathers… nuttin' but a bunch of Dead Precedents.
- Assisted Living… that’s Too Good for You, Brother
As for my opinion on this other realm, that’s a conversation I would absolutely adore sharing with you. So, go ahead and off yourself you selfish fucking loser*. This is none of my business.
- Tips
It would appears that these days, an entire industry has come to rely on this goodwill and kind nature of us patrons; not for exceptional, or even good service but just for the basic service itself; the bare proper performance of one’s duty. It’s as if the proprietor can now expect their patrons to commit to a substantial portion of the actual wage itself. The part of a severs compensation for simply providing the service in a competent fashion. How can this possibly work?
When a proprietor sets the price of say, Penne Arabiata on their menu at $25.99, I’m left to assume their evaluation in this price includes the cost of ingredients, the cost of preparation, chef’s wages, kitchen cost a portion of general overhead, which, I assume includes the wages paid to the serving staff. If not... Then please set the price at a point where these things AND your completer service is covered. You may also want to work in a little profit as, we all know the greatest crime against the working man, your wait staff, cook etc., is a company that does not turn a profit.
Are waiters free agents? If their wage will not be covered primarily by their basic services, why can't they jusy offer me something from the menu next door? "I mean really sir, the steak here is good, but if you allow me an extra 10 minutes, I'll get you one at both a better price AND..." Wouldn’t this be better service and more deserving of a better tip from me?
Don't get the picture?
I am more than happy to tip the person who takes my order, walks into the kitchen at the right time and places it in front of me when its best ready to be eaten. But I pay for the core service on my bill... I pay extra only if this is carried out with some pleasant chit chat, maybe a suggestion or two, you know human interaction that heightens the already too expensive experience of my eating out.
Oh and... no, I do not put my change in the tip jar at the coffee shop after someone pours plain coffee into a paper cup and points me in the direction of the milk jug. If the owner of said shop isn't covering his end and paying you a full wage; it is not my place to augment his wages, it's his business. See an accountant.
- You are Watching Nothing but a Projection...
- Yes, Maybe I Did Hear The Fucking Plane
He'd changed his route a few months earlier so he could escort his then current girlfriend to her office. It was less direct, but he really quite enjoyed the extra few blocks, crossing the bridge, a nice little extra walking to start the day. Even on those way too many days she didn’t join him, when she'd sleep in, or called in sick, he’d more often than not, grab the 7. It was actually very surprisingly how often he did do this alone, how often she did call in sick considering how long she would eventually keep that job. On this morning, she was along with him. On top of it being an extra bit of walking to enjoy, he also enjoyed the ride the 7 an old Red Bird provided. How it bumped and jolted and violently swayed along the tracks and into at his station; how it seemed to bore n' grind itself right into Time SQ/42 Street, which at that time was the terminus of the 7 Line, one of his favorite lines in the city, for many reasons, some we might get to some other day.
The slope of the track entering Time SQ/42 Street coupled with the ricketiness of the old Red Bird’s rolling stock; "who doesn't love those old... redbirds" he'd often say to his pals; these countless-time-retrofitted over their service limits, tin-can-like train cars that seemed to twist apart at the seams around each corner, over each bump n' ripple on this older line inside the world's second oldest subway system. Another of the many more things he loved about NYC. A transit system, a transit commission that seemed to enjoy matching its oldest equipment with the lines and tunnels with the most decayed infrastructure. Who doesn't love a city in seriously need of repair. Who doesn’t love wandering around it’s most run-down parts.... but again, that's for, that some other day...
The 7 train would lurch downward just as it approached Time SQ/42 Street; just as it began its deceleration from top speed, which on this old worn out rolling stock felt like 700 mph. Gravity would jolt the riders forward then from side to side as the often-under-repair uneven ripples in the track made for a rough choppy-like sea, little bumpy breakers. The carriages would shake violently, just to that point when one might imagine there being no way they’ll even survive this intense a vibration. In his often one-fifth to halfway hung-over state, or if he were suffering the, you know lack of sleep associated with doing the stuff he shouldn’t have been doing on a “school night”; this rugged decelerating pitch n’ roll pounding and swaying vibration was a pure tactile pleasure. A bit of a thrill ride; the morning's awakening reminder that he was here, in the city, for certain, quite alive and living in the liveliest of places he'd always loved and was now able, finally, to call home... He’d finally made it to the place he’d so long ago pointed at and said, this is my home!.
Upon the slowing. not sudden but bouncing stop, the secondary less sudden rebounding jolt backwards. There it would be, another dramatic-fantasy, the miraculously surprisingly safe arrival at Time SQ/42 Street. Up he’d get from his seat (if had gotten one) and into the plunge, the tussling mix of all the other gorgeous morning morons who felt it necessary to race, be the first, up the stairs. He exited the station at his own happy just to be here pace. Never the first to emerge, but maybe the happiest to arrive and skip into what was on that day, the crystal-clearest, most cloudless bluest of blue skied and sunshiny day anyone would ever remember the streets of midtown Manhattan being bathed in. To be clear on this last point. It was probably one of the most beautiful summer’s done, but it’s not quite fall day there ever had been and maybe ever will be in… New York City.
He couldn't recall what meaningless chit-chatter he was having with his then current girlfriend on their walk into their offices that morning. Maybe there was some bickering, perhaps as was the case, more often than not, they simply walked along together in the dreadful silence she'd invade his happiness with. She was headed towards the easiest job in the city that she hated with all her might. He was walking towards a job that was simply just keeping him in, attached to this city he was in love with. Her shuffling alongside him didn’t really mean much, in many ways, like his current job, she was just another bit of glue, a piece of tape that helped him hold his tenuous grip to this place. He was in a trough, at a low point, holding tight to the inkling of a notion, that things would always get better if he just kept going with the few things that were going… kinda right. Good fortune, and maybe a bit of Forbes like business fame was as always, just around the corner; and in Manhattan what's around each and every corner is quite certainly a better bet than anywhere else one could have been.
We’ll just assume that on this day, like most days when he grabbed the 7, they shuffled along in complete silence. They’d be walking down 7th Avenue from 42nd Street to the doorway to her office's entrance at 36th Street, just up one block from the backdoor of Macy's. Dropping her off was a happier part of the walk on the days he'd escort his then current girlfriend. After a vacant kiss and the more or less joyless "see ya later" at 36th Street, he'd be afforded another more peaceful 11 block walk to his office on his own. A chance to light up another smoke without being nagged. He'd soak in the city he loved. He’d be able to let thoughts of what he might do next with his life run wild. He was always just two steps, a good decision or two and a couple of dreams of greatness ahead of when he'd find himself where he wanted to be. Today, on this day, nothing new nor memorable came to mind, or happened along the way... until he heard that sound he'll never truly remember hearing but would later always know for absolute certain, he did fucking hear... it. The sound of a shrieking jet engine, one way too low… a jet airliner, a distinctive shriek, a sound he knew quite well.
He had grown up in the little town called Trenton, not Jersey, but Ontario. Trenton Ontario, a really little town in Canada’s biggest province in that homeland the he had, for quite some, all the time he’d spent before he'd get to New York City, considered to be the most wretchedly boring place to have been from. Trenton was home to a military base. It was actually Canada's largest, busiest and most important Air Force base. For him, a clear sky full of various aircraft was just normal. When he visited his cousins in Brockville, Ontario, just down the St. Lawrence he'd stare for ages at the Lakers, the Ships running shit up and down the Great Lakes. His Brockville cousins simply ignored the boats as they chugged upriver and down the St. Lawrence on their way to and from Thunder Bay. But when these cousins visited him in Trenton, he'd chuckle at how they couldn't stop and look up each time a Hercules or a Buffalo rumbled through the skies, or when the deafening shrieking pitch of a 707, those old airliners, made it almost impossible to finish one's conversation... He had not only learned how to ignore the air-traffic above him, but he could also easily distinguish one plane from the other simply by the sound it made. It had become an almost instinctually subconscious skill that would prove helpful in putting his and more importantly his then current girlfriend's mind at ease... later that morning. At this moment, when he did or didn’t really remember hearing the shriek, he knew or didn’t know, exactly… it was an airliner.
Upon arrival at the makeshift Manhattan offices of his New Jersey based employer, another collection of kids who had decided they'd "rule the world" by opening yet another makeshift digital, internet marketing and advertising agency meant to compete with stolid, gray n' old agencies who hadn't a clue what they were doing in digital just up and over on Madison Avenue... Funny enough, even fifteen years later, nobody, except him of course, knew what they were doing in digital marketing and advertising... but that's beside the point... He unlocked the door to the makeshift Manhattan office and entered to a ringing, a ringing phone, that seemed to be ringing far too early. Looking back, if asked, he'd likely say that the phone seemed to be ringing off the hook.
"Do you hear any sirens?"
One of his bosses, the one he had rarely seen screamed at him in a hurriedly, oddly what sounded eve a bit panicked scream… He hadn't heard any siren, well ok, he hadn’t heard any more more sirens than he’d normally have heard in an 17 block walk smokin’ a smoke in the city on any given day. His walk from the 42nd Street Subway Exit to his office at 25th and 7th. But… then… just as the question was being asked, he'd suddenly come to realize; just right then… as he was being asked, that yes, the city did seem to come alive with the wailing sounds of way more sirens than usual, all of a sudden, it seemed to be sirens was all he could hear.
"A plane hit the towers..."
"A plane hit the towers..." ? …Well if that thought certainly didn't, couldn’t register at all with him. What towers? What, when where... what plane? What plane... huh?
The conversation was becoming more frantic and fractured as all the early risers who worked at the Jersey office started barking the new news as it happened. They had all gathered around a TV in the Jersey office likely as soon as they'd got similar calls from their friends or loved ones. His boss had somehow managed to tell him a theory that the plane was maybe a FedEx cargo plane, definitely not a single or double propped or private plane. A large enough airliner to do considerable damage had shrieked at full speed right into the North Tower of the world trade center, and that's all anyone knew... and they had a TV... in Jersey... so they knew as much as anyone else and way more than he knew as he stood there, kinda stunned, standing alone, in a still darkened makeshift Manhattan office space, just off 7th Avenue, in an old garment trade building at the top end of the garment district, just below midtown, in that in between no-man's land near The Garden. The part of town someone who didn't know better might have called, the lower edge of Hell's Kitchen, but was actually way way closer to say, Chelsea... just then…
"Another plane!!! Another plane just hit the other tower... the south tower, another plane..."
He overheard one of the early risers in the New Jersey office, not on the call, scream even more loudly in the background behind the conversation he was having with his boss... WHAT THE FUCK? Who knows and who cares who said this, him or his boss, or neither of them... ? … the conversation was abruptly finished except for his, almost too calmly saying something to the effect... "I better get out there and see what's what... I'll call you back as soon as I know something"; a weird little offer to be a helpful but quite honestly lousy salesman they'd hired to work out of the makeshift Manhattan office.
Hanging up, he bolted for the door, subconsciously, almost instinctively, he took the stairs, raced through the lobby, out and across 7th, over to 6th where he knew he'd have a clear view of the Towers. A beautiful view on this mo0st beautiful of days of the biggest things you'd ever see looming over any city, over this city, the city that had become so fixed in the dreams he had dreamed up for himself since the first time he'd visited there on a Grade 12 Urban Geography field trip back in 1979...
Once on 6th Avenue, he stopped dead; not quite as startled as he should have been he looked up into a now planeless and utterly clearest of clear blue sky to see it; the big burning hole in the north side of the North Tower. It was flaming at the edges, a burning hole like one that would form in a sheet of paper if you'd held a lit cigarette to the center of it. He looked up at the Towers, for what he couldn't have known at the time would be the last time he'd have the chance to look up at them and thought, quite frantically, sadly even, most definitely confused by what he was looking up at, thinking to himself... How in God’s name, how in hell are they going to fix that hole?
And right then, right there, he knew, that this was… To be continued…
- How the Hell Are We Ever Going to Fix This Hole?
He came to groggy again, just a little bit more than half naked. The plump n' cute neighbor he'd never seen before nor would ever meet again still sleeping… He'd only just noticed the far too large pile of leftover powder ...when. The louder than expected nearby but still distant echoing explosion made him immediately remember. He realized he'd once again traded yet another could have been interesting spectacle, something to be seen, for a night of drinking and debauchery... again… these wasteful trade-offs quickly counting up, to far too many times already. A night of lively and useless conversations, more meaningless Corner-Bar chit-chatter. Instead of getting up a bit earlier than when he'd half fallen asleep... heading on over to Pulaski bridge to watch the controlled-explosion a couple of old, maybe 10 story tall or so decommissioned oil storage tank towers that sat along the Newtown Creek; the industrial ditch of a river that ran through the wasteland that divided Brooklyn, Kings County from Queens.
He lay there half-nakedly missing the pre-planned dropping of Greenpoint’s tallest towers. Trading what anyone who had enough little boy left kicking around inside him would have really not wanted to miss. Damned cocaine. Getting himself up and reaching over the awkwardness of saying his goodbyes to the plump n' cute Greenpoint neighbor; he tucked the leftover cocaine above the medicine cabinet, with all the other things he wouldn't want his then current girlfriend to find... and felt a bit sad, and a bit mad at himself for missing the explosion.
He stood there on 6th Avenue, probably near 22nd or 23rd for what was one of those forever moments that was more likely merely an instant. He became nearly mesmerized by the slowly growing, burning around the edges, hole in the north side of the North Tower. The fires around the edges burning an image far more deeply into him than he ever would have imagined. He was far enough uptown to not really recognize for certain just what those little dark falling things were; the little black dots, mixed in with the other bits and pieces of things that fell from the burning hole. Irregularly falling, black dots, some seeming to simply let go. He'd couldn’t have really known just how much this burning image, how those little black irregularly falling dots he was staring at would been burned into that locked away rarely visited corner of his soul... or how deeply he’d push them into it’s darkest part.
A crowd of people, stopped dead in their tracks in the busiest of cities that was now quickly shutting down, began forming around him. People had come crawling out of this subway entranceway or out of this or that office building doorway. All of them, looking up along with him, horrifiedly grabbing at their own instant forever moments.
Quietly at first, but as it was likely to happen in Midtown Manhatten, it seemed like the site of large looming towers with big burning holes had been given there due share of their “New York Minutes” and almost seemed to become, what… ? …a new normal? Was it just that there was no frame of reference, no context, not enough mental material in all the clutter and confusion? Suddenly, all at once all these New Yorkers were subconsciously prompted to just, oddly, get back into what it was they had been doing. Maybe they were so stunned that they needed to return to, the normal, their phone calls and conversations. They’re rattled brains, confused fears demanded they try to return to getting on with what had been the start of the day. He drifted from his own mesmerized moment to the sound of chit-chatter, random bits and pieces...
"I'm going to be late..."
"…the damned subway's been shut down..."
"I'm looking for a bus, now..."
"…tell them I'm sorry and I'll join them in the conference room as soon as I can"...
As New Yorker's often, no, always do, they all started talking, again, all at once. As if to be even happily sharing another “the usual” minor morning misery, a too long a line up or a late bus… sharing a NYC bitch with anyone next to them that would listen. The NYC bitch, the nattering complaints prompted by the day-to-day annoyances they all loved to hate in a city that demand you loved to hate it... When in New York, you gotta complain, you gatta bitch like a New Yorker. He could never describe to anyone who'd not lived there the civilized camaraderie this continuous complaining fostered. All his neighbors, all these New Yorker knew the bitch and… started a bitchin’ all at once... Obliged to share, everything, each annoying little hassle with each other, one upping each other’s bitch, elevating and exaggerating... even on this day, watching the now normal and growing burning hole, the humor in it all did make it all the more bearable.
He himself had started chatting with the first fella standing next to him, a big guy right beside him. A huge, big bear of a fella in a kinda oddly warm looking for the weather brown vested three piece suit, a big bearded fella.
This fella had gotten through on the phone somehow to the folks he'd meant to be meeting with downtown and was sharing with me, what little info they'd been able to give him. Pretty much more mass confusion; a description of what sounded like utter chaos. No one knowing what to do, nor what would come next... THEN… not a near sounding, but mid-distant, louder than one would have expected explosion… as the North Tower, with that unfixable hole still burning, black dots dropping, letting go... falling... straight into what could best be described as a big billowing mushroom cloud of dust, dirt and still more dust than anyone could ever have imagined... as that once looming tower came down... utter terror... sheer panic... the seemingly long since, now immediately over mesmerizing moment that was trying so hard to become a new normal all at once becoming a , what the hell do we do?
What the hell...
…what the hell were we all to do... now?
Shrieks, and loud shouting. He noticed the big bear of a fella, now his new friend. That big bear of a fella was almost crying... without even thinking he gave him a hug as the big bear, now seeming panic-stricken said "my friends are down there" and took off in some unknown direction... his own little inner-boy, the one still inside him kicking madly and screaming to get even closer. Get down there, help out... ! …over ruled.
He started running in the better direction; to 7th Avenue, towards the makeshift office still vacant... the phone wasn't ringing, neither incoming nor out... no circuits... try after try he'd finally got through... "the second tower's down"... his then current girlfriend, herself now screaming, please meet me, come and help me... the next thing he knew, he was with her outside her office, just up from the backdoor of Macy's. Like everyone around them, scrambled searching inside themselves for, something that on that day had no context, no reference, everyone looking for some plan, something, anything an idea for the next thing to do... the little boy inside him wanting to leave her with someone, head downtown to witness the action... they headed uptown, almost running.
They never would fix that hole, that now forever a memory of a burning hole. It was all over… Well not really over for the rest of that day. The next weeks, months and year after years and years after too many years it would take for all of this bullshit, the towers, his then current girlfriend, everything in chaos to play itself out...
Again, it was a moment that was way to big to fit the time allotted and would likely be… To be continued… fuck… again and again and again…
- RUN! Walk... Sit, Roll Over...
They stopped for another of those forever in an instant moment in front of some bar, a shop, a blur... A television in the window, a small crowd gathered around repeating all the information anyone had managed to gather; "another plane has hit the Capitol Building", The Pentagon, five more planes, six "...ten more planes reported". More targets, other planes shot down in Connecticut, New Jersey, Pennsylvania... as far as Chicago, LA... RUN! Why? Where? Running on the then current girlfriend's instinct alone ...they continued uptown... away to The Park, then ...they were stopped dead, somewhere in one of those almost skyless, echoing midtown canyons; the roaring screech of a jet engine passed above them.. A panicked look at once consumed her face in utter fear; a broad smile eased over his... relieved.
...distinguishing one plane from another simply by the sound it made: that now glorious subconscious skill, his instinct... All those rumbling drones of the old Hercs, the air transport, cargo plains, all that noise above him he'd hear on the hour in the skies above him growing up in boring old Trenton, Ontario. This sound, the sound above the Midtwon Canyons that day wasn’t the deafening, conversation ending shriek of the 707's, those old airliners... It was the growling roar of a fighter. He knew in that instant, they were all at once, at least for now, out of any immediate danger.
Oddly enough, it was right around where they were, where they had heard the fighter… He was standing merely blocks away from that somewhere, when what could easily have been one hundred years earlier; he had fallen madly and oh so truly deeply in love with New York City. They were in the canyons, on the the west side of Midtown, right around the old Edison Hotel in Hell's Kitchen where, in 1979, just up and over from what was by far, a far more different and dangerous Time Square at the time, he'd fallen in love.
Unlikely, but like a plunging neckline, tight skirts and tall boots danger of was most definitely one of the cities sexiest attractions back in the 70’s. It was right around here that he and his high school classmates would have ventured out into those New York nights in Manhattan. Wandering directly into the directions they were told earlier by their teachers to avoid; towards the Port Authority, over to the far more guttural Times Square... sex shops, live sex shows... tight skirts and tall boots. Hearing all the come ons and the fantasies of all the never quite ending threats. That newly found teenaged tingling sensation that strained directly from the loins, made his breath quicken and his heart pound, just a little bit...excitements. Small town and country kids so completely out of place. He and his friends likely wanting nothing more than to leave, run maybe; him... already planning his return.
On the way out of town from that trip, looking out the bus window, gazing at the burned down Bronx, Harlem, a West Side Story like acid trip on the pills they’d bought in Time Square the night before. A bottle or two of booze he was able to buy his buddies, simply because he was tall... a tour up to the top of those tall towers that loomed so large over this busiest of cities... back then. A three card monty whirlwind of jacked up on blocks, stripped cars, constant sirens, dreamed up gun shots, a whole city that seemed to be shouting to him... see you again, soon. It all happened and was happing again… right there
Sitting on the benches at the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park, a couple of boneheaded hippy kids told some tall tale of how they'd had breakfast in the towers earlier that morning. It was the last time he'd ever again hear an, even in the slightest, exaggerated "where I was... that day" story. Every story from then on would be real, honest and from the deepest part of the teller’s heart.
Stories ranging from I was in LA to, I was on up to the 66th floor. There was no good place to be on September 11th, 2001. No story needing to be embellished. He would hear so many, day after day, year after year. Stories that crept in and out quietly from his own just below midtown. I was down around Union Square and across 14th.
"I was on Bleecker Street..."
"I was just finishing breakfast in Tribeca..."
Stories that traveled down West Broadway, across Canal Street into China Town. Stories travelling closer and closer... on Barkly... Vesey Street... onto the plaza, inside and up the stairwell where those folks, those blessed survivors wound their way so surprisingly calmly down; watching far too many firefighters winding their way up the same stairs, running up... No one; not a single one of them had a clue what the next 10, 15, 20 minutes would bring down around them... all over, those next senseless minutes, senseless hours... day, months, years.
He'd finally convinced his then current girlfriend that they were indeed out of any immediate danger; what jackass would fly his hijacked airliner into the park. The F18s, seemed to fill the sky; he had looked up; caught glimpses of his newest friends. Those fellas who'd be flying sorties, in the only planes above the City for days...
It eventually, simply became time to just head home. Back to Greenpoint, up and over the 59th Street Bridge, a herd of Brooklyn, Kings County n' Queens residents on foot across the lower deck. Sirens wizzing their way in and out of The City across the upper level. Over his right shoulder a sight, he’d always recall how he really didn't want to look at, but couldn't take his eyes off of. He’d never ever forget... that plume of thick black smoke, venting from lower Manhattan... like a puncture wound, a leak... so unreal that if it hadn't continued for weeks, he may have doubted he'd ever seen it... at all, it all made no sense whatsoever... still.
They plunked themselves down in front of CNN with the rest of America, and most of the world. Reports of the Pentagon, the downing in Shanksville. By this time the threat of any other planes in a now completely empty, planeless, still crystal clear, bright and brilliant blue sky was quite over and done with. He'd later recall having not a single memory of what he'd see on TV the rest of that day. He simply plunked in front of a flickering light forming an endless scrawl, a scroll of new data tape worming its way across the bottom of every news report...
An immediate family drama had now taken over and thankfully distracted his then current girlfriend. Her father was missing. His story we'd be told later, started at his office, just across the street from the North Tower... he'd not been heard from for hours... Worry spread through the then current girlfriend’s family and friends. Far too melodramatic phone calls and speculation he'd wanted no part of; he knew George would eventually show up...
George's story started curiously enough with him looking up and wondering, "how are they going to fix that"; but his black dots were much bigger, he saw first hand and right in his face all those people, sadly, simply letting go. Landing more like mud filled potato sacks as they splattered on the ground, all right around him, at his feet... these almost direct hit splattering thuds prompted him to leave just prior to that monstrous dust cloud we now see in ppicture... the collapsing cloud of dust chasing him and the rest of the downtown crowds down the street.
George would describe his diving under a car to escape, not the monstrous dust cloud n' rubble, but from being trampled by crowd of people he'd managed to get himself ahead of... his, choosing the Manhattan Bridge over the Brooklyn ...what his own born and raised in Queen’s instincts would convince him the lesser of two targets... mud filled potato sacks splats...exploding at his feet. His story would be told in bits and pieces and like many who told the same… His story would almost sink him mentaly.
George showed up later that day; becoming just another glorious one. ONE to be subtracted from that long list of the most dreadful number. The count each of us had had thrown into our minds immediately that morning... how many dead? 50,000... 30,000... 15,000... 5, 4, 3... each "ONE" subtracted from those counts, simply a sigh of what little relief was leftover over those next few days... George was eventually found, covered in dust, that deep dark corner of his mind now full of demons he’d spend years trying to evict…
Later that day he would reach above the medicine cabinet, sorting through all the other things he wouldn't want his then current girlfriend to find... in front the TV that would stay on for weeks in search of more info, alerts, still squawking, new news scrawling and scrolling a tapeworm of data that seemed to stretch on and on and on...he did a line, then another line, then he did that last line that separated that sad Sunday morning last weekend with the plump Greenpoint Girl... from, no more leftovers.
He hasn't a clue what they'd get up that evening, doesn't recall sleeping, if they'd gone out and did some drinking... got more lines... crossed, not yet over into the nonsense but nothing likely not anyone could make any sense of... nothing at all certain... except, maybe one thing he hadn't yet noticed.
On this side of that dreadful line... He was now most certainly the New Yorker he’d always hoped he would be.
And, now… is this to be continued... almost for certain. BUT… not anytime soon.
- Welcome to Agenda-Land.
My health is the property of my doctor and my doctor is owned by the drug dealers who drop samples at his office... the CDC and the WHO? They’re owned by Pfizer, Merck, Novartis and... you name it. They own it.
So, this article... file it with the rest. If you can weave a filament through it and gently extract a sliver of truth, great, share it best you can. All I have for you is more agenda driven hogwash...
Until we return to a truer form of market-signal driven capitalism. A system where each of the separate functions maintain some anonymity all we can hope for is a dabble of truth here and modicum of liberty there... “Right to Try” legislation appears to have been a last glimmer of hope under this dark cloud of total nonsense...
Sorry, what was the question again?
- Racism is a Construct
I admit to telling salty jokes, insulting people and ironically making fun of racial stereotypes to make salient and sometimes poignant points. Big fucking deal, this is how honest adults communicate. I’ll speak in generalities when addressing “a group”, I’ll even denigrate a “group” if I feel the numbers, I’ve read bare this generalization out, if there’s a documented pattern of statistics. Doing so is not an attack nor a judgement on any one person. Negative criticism of anyone is not necessarily a judgement in the first place.
I find the concept of race itself ridiculous, outdated and for the most part irrelevant in the first place. What scientifically constitutes a race anyway, skin color, eye shape, the consistency of one’s hair? Are these similarities and/or differences really set a measure more than say, cultural traits? I’ve been “married” to three woman who’d be classified as white. They were a Canadian of Scottish decent, a Jewish woman from Queen’s NY and an Italian from Rome. I can say with certainty, the differences between these three women would be substantially more extreme than say a black woman, a white woman and an Asian girl that all grew up in downtown Toronto. My guess is the differences is the latter group would be born more of the heritage of their parents than their skin tone, eye shape or hair consistency.
At the end of the day, I’d rather celebrate each of our differences. I’d rather explore with a friend these differences and marvel in the source of these. I’ve no problem at all ribbing a Jewish pal who partakes in rituals I find odd, argue politics based on traditions and customs. My thinking you are wrong does not and should never imply that I’ve judged myself better than you.
On a final point, designed specifically to piss you off. I do not believe that “diversity is our strength”, not in the slightest. Cultural history will easily bare out that tightly knit, homogeneous tribes and groups are far more easy to organize physically, mentally, socially and economically. Our strength is tolerance. If a primarily “white” or better, “western” group can accept black Africans and Caribbeans into their communities, make but a few cultural demands for cohesion, that community will be a stronger community. If those of different cultural heritages and practices tolerate the practices of each the other, all the better. We can all agree, sharing dishes and dances of one another, while displaying pride in our own makes for the best of parties. History also proves, that over time when and if two disparate groups “come together” either in peace or at war, these culures will blend from one another over time, naturally. This may be or may not be for “the good”. But then again, who are we to judge what’s good?
- Just Who is the Executive Producer
You might wonder, where’s the line here? Where is the measuring point? Couldn’t tell you, don’t care. When it comes to artist for which I’ll draw this line, I’ll draw it wherever I damned well please. When it comes to fictional moving picture, art that hangs on the wall or novels, who cares really, it’s entertainment. Even if the writers or directors try and sneak in “the narrative” it’s usually as easy to spot as any typical product placement. I don’t go to “movies” or a gallery to learn something. I attend these things, waste my money on them to tune out for a few hours.
So, why not go see the new DeNiro flick? He’s a doorknob, a sad little man. If you look closely, he can’t really act, the characters he has portrayed are all various versions of the same, tough guy. He’s more boring than watching Woody Allen be Woody Allen in all his films. Same goes for Tom Hanks and Kevin Spacey… dicks.
Worry not though my friend. You are more than welcome to disagree and enjoy all the works of all these dudes. I won’t think any more or less of you. As noted, none of this crap is of any real meaning. It’s all either mindlessness or mockingbird propaganda. If I want to actually look at it, I can usually see throw it in minutes. If it’s a good little story I’ll enjoy it… and …if Denzel is in it… I’ll probably fucking love it.
- I Maintain, the Only Way to Counter Misinformation or Disinformation is With More Information
- SECTION 230 - I Was There
Twitter, Facebook, Google et al host my tweets, posts, photos and videos. I maintain full ownership and am liable for what I say or post. IF Twitter, et al want to edit, they are in fact now publishing, and in turn liable for this content. They can’t just cherry pick and edit me and maintain the cover of being a platform. This is the way it should be. We cannot start destroying the provider of the bookshelf for books you want to burn. We cannot sue car companies when someone wipes out your family in a crash, not can we sue Remington if one of their rifles ar used in the next school shooting.
This debate will always be very entertaining. Personal agency must be maintained. If we start blaming all our acts, either intentional or accidental on our tools, the person disappears. If I have threatened you in one of these stories. We cannot go after the printing house that printed and bound ths book; nor the provider of the digital form. Who will be there to “move our ideas” if doing so risked the mover as much if not more than the creator of these thought.
- The Natural Human Desire IS to NOT to be Ostracized
- The Righteousness VS The Arrogance.
Well that question indeed has got me thinking. Well, OK, there are more than a few of you out there with strong doubts as to the possibility of my having any ability at thinking at all… so, for your sakes, we'll revise this to, got me a ponderin’. So what is it about Mayor Bonehead vs. The Oh-So-Downtown-n-Progressives that leaves me not able to simply, look away? What?
The pun-dent/press/media angle might appear kinda nifty, but... I mean this showing off just how ridiculous the wank... er wonk-industry has become, especially in parallel with the bizarre, is it a Byzantium pantomime, or is it just more Western Roman-esq skull-dramatic-drudgery; you know Obama fucking and knifing the people who love(d) him the absolute most-est best-est there in back; OK, maybe not fucking and knifing the associate ones, but you know, kinda listening in on their phone calls and reading their emails and all that… Actually, I wonder how many nice things he's learned about himself?
No, it's not really the press-angle, not how the Canadian version of "the mainstream press" has bent over backward over four-words even n' letters to or from the Editor no less. How every news-bit seems to need three minutes of back-spin-spun pre-amble reminding us that "these are only allegations", seriously "these are only allegations" before the talking heads spend the next ten minutes raking Mister big ol' Pink-Belly over the red-hots... Ya, OK that's been pathetically fun to watch, read and listen to... but.
OK… I don't think I'll ever have a bigger laugh at the news than I did when I read the Editor (no less) of the venerably ancient and olden glorious Globe and Mail use the words "…Canada' most powerful political family in Canada's biggest (most important implied) City" to describe, who-huh, really, The Fords? ...prior to launching a two-page investigative report that basically confirmed that these Ford brothers WERE, exactly as we suspected, those "feathered back" hair dudes driving late model 1970's beat up 'n old semi-muscle Chevy's up and down the streets of (Scarborough?) selling dope to future council-men hippie-wanna-be's who'd just applied to Hart House… Powerful, yep… I heard their next act is gonna be opening a meth lab on the Bridalpath… BUT, no no no, it's NOT that (even if it is… a bit)
I think that it's simply… This has been news item has become the most brazenly obvious example of the epic struggle me and my name-less generation has found ourselves, well struggling a bit with… You know... the battle of...
The Righteousness VS The Arrogance… Indeed
Short of Hollering out and almost halving to recuse myself, I will admit, I have over the years sullied my spotless reputation as a right-in-the-middle kind hearted kinda somewhat-soulless sound-offer by, maybe, on occasion or two, sidling up to and siding with the "righteous" once or two times few often. I won't bother to point out that there's a personal back-story behind that and, best to leave the horror-show alone for now. HEY, I just have a soft spot for simplicity and a not-so-sexy snake oil salesmen selling discounted common-sense by the ballot-box load; well, ya… they got and may still get a good chunk of my ear-time, and BUTT, do trust me when I say… I am getting tired of it ALL.
Of course I'm nowhere near as tired of the snake-oilers as I am of the save-them from themselves crowd; you know the ones who haven't the faintest notion of how ironically horrendous they sound as they say something like "You know…" OR "Have you ever considered… if they'd just eat better, maybe a little less Kraft dinner and coke-a-cola..." as they put down their menu and ask… "have you tried their Manicotti Fiorentina? Is it any good here? More wine?" - What can I say, I find it easier to giggle at the righteous than I do being in utter aghast at the arrogant.
To be quite honest… I'm starting to come to the notion that both side I find myself and my dear friends on becoming very tiresome… When was the last time I OR anyone else had an original idea or complaint for that matter.
AND, all joking aside for a split second at least. What's dying before our very eyeballs here is any semblance of empathy. We all seem so happy making up or cracking the late-night rim-shot one liners OR playing meme-volly-ball on Faithbook; bouncing 'em back and forth between our link-minded pals-n-selves with nary a care of ever really putting one over the net. We seem to be satisfied with simply scowling at one another and patting each other on the backs again each time the next sound-byte calamity bowls us over over the air-waves… sigh, I did say… we.
Sadder yet… the only ones who seem to be making any headway, gaining any ground in this epic battle for whats left of our tinee-tiny little holy-souls are the ones who bank and back both sides. The ones who air the message, laugh at us while they sniff their maple-scented wondrous one hundred dollar bills while we're lined up to pay 'em a buck and a quarter to draw our last 20 outta their convenience machines…
Yup, seem's like it's still the end of the twentieth century here in too-ought '13. The arrogant hold the House while the righteous hold… well, the other house; we hold nothing; empathy dies on the vine and to the GREEDY go the spoils of this silly little thing we can't seem to stop wanting to go to war for.
Yikes… I think I just stopped smiling.
arrogance: overbearing pride evidenced by a superior manner toward inferiors.
righteousness: adhering to perceived moral principles.
- Rabbit
This episode brought to mind the time my second ex-wife brought our two stupid cats to the vet for a check-up. Why you’d bother going paying for a vet to check anything on your dumb cat short of having a leg dangling from a bloody starnd of skin or ligament. She called me from the Vet to assure me that the cats were indeed OK, but, the Vet suggested they would benefit from having their teeth cleaned. I think she knew my eyes were rolling when I assured her that cats have been living in the wild for millions of years without access to a a toothbrush so…
A few years later, she called about the same cats, this time assuring me that they required treatment that was going to cost at least $200+ each. I asked her to get a quote from the vet for the cost of putting them down; (I later researched this and found it would be about the same if not a little bit less). I told her, listen, if these cats are broken to the tune of requiring repairs in the range of two hundred bucks, let’s just turn these one’s in cut our losses and find two working cats, we could probably get ‘em free somewhere.
Obviously, this is me starting the process of looking for my third wife. It’s two bad all the timing was wrong. The tattooed now Swedish Art Teacher was pretty cute and who knows, maybe she would have been up for getting one of those mini-pigs for a pet and we could have had the “makin’ bakin’ conversation a few years don the road. Women make lousy pets.
- Parallel Worlds
- Remember That Time He Served Him Ice Cream
Wait, what? You didn’t know we were at war? You didn’t see, it was an act of war? Remember that time He had the Chinese Premier over for dinner. That first time he hosted a major Head of State, at his private castle, on the beach, down in Florida? Wait, you don’t remember that? Do you recall how he fed him a nice meal; they appeared to be having a nice chat… Remember when, during dessert, I’m pretty sure it was ice cream, I think they each had two scoops when. Remember how he excused himself and went off to a backroom somewhere and fired 156 Exocet missiles into some bunker, some unmanned ammo dump in Syria, you know well not in the middle east but close enough up in the Levant. You didn’t notice this? You don’t remember this? You don’t understand what he was saying to his dinner guest do you? His dinner guest who had been ramming his war ships in the South China Sea and teasing and taunting a few of our friends over in, that part of the world... He was basically telling them, his dinner guests that he was going to take our business back, screw the debt we owe them and... go ahead, try to fight us with the weapons systems the last “guy” left for you on her wide open, un-password-protected bathroom server up in Chappaqua... there may not have been 100,000 dead Americans this time but, this war was and remains way past cold.
- Phillip Glass
- Failure of the Law of Increasing Misery to Materialize
Ok, at a top-like level, these goofy, happy avatar thingies that people use instead of real photos on their various social media pages are kinda more than cringeu... If you dig a bit deeper and recall that this really took off as a partctice around the time we where about three months into that bizarre (some might even say ridiculous), fear induced lockdown. Here we were all stuck inside at home with family or friends and we were what, creating stylized cartoon versions of ourselves? It’s a wonder that our children’s eyes didn’t start to roll up into the back of their heads; that they didn’t all at once sit straight up, all together, all at once, turning to face us… They didn’t begin walking slowly, silently in unison towards us.., that they didn’t just eat us... These cartoon avatars, were and still are cringle levei ten kinda level creepy... no? ...no? really… wait for it. They will one day, eat us. It’s not just myth.
- Sabrina Is Off to Engineering School in Los Angeles
- I Am a Liberal
Nobody really gives a shit about cartoon Muslims or cartoon Drag Queens dressed cringingly in a fashion that’s purely meant to appear alarming, if they stay away from the kids. I can’t think of any single person I know, including my extremely devout Christian cartoon middle American family from Iowa friends that would do anything but chuckle if they came upon a late night adults only drag show at some sad old gay bar somewhere on the left side of town.
Now, to be absolutely clear, I do know people who are more than a bit reticent at the whole idea of being shamed because they wouldn’t want their toddler exposed to a 200lb Drag Queens with no underwear reading to them about Sally having two mom’s at the public Library; and rightfully so. Most drag is by nature “sexualized” and no one wants their tiny tots sexualized, BY ANYONE. I also have pals who don’t wanted to be shamed for being a bit suspicious of how Sharia Law appears to be making inroads into our legal and cultural systems. Traditions and a way of life that has been carved out of a our Judio-Christian framework... The key concept here, I have friends who don’t appreciated being “shamed” for… having totally legitimate opinions, ideas and concerns.
Personally, I believe myself to be totally, one hundred percent liberal in the definition set forth by great men like Adam Smith, John Stewart Mills and on through maybe Jefferson Jefferson; later re-established socially and economically by the likes of Hayek, Nosiak and Freedman. To be clear, I am most definitely a “get off my back jack” you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you, liberal. I’m also a strong believer in heritage, traditions and the conservation of practices and rituals that add meaning to these glorious lives we given. That’s right, I am a liberal with conservative ideals. If it ain’t broken and it ain’t hurting anyone, stop trying to fix and/or change it and stop telling people to stop doing it.
No one I know lives a cartoon life on either end of these silly political spectrums. Nor does anyone I know live in the middle. Everyone I know lives their lives on both ends and the middle all at once. The “real” people I know all want to live a nice life, not hurt anyone and, if given the time want to move our little civilization here, forward. Namely in the direction of good, friendly and tolerant. After years of observation, all I can tell is the difference between me and anyone else remains slight and mostly in the idea of how to make this move forward possible. I’ve also noticed, the only way to come to an agreement on this is, to fight it out, tooth n’ nail, passionately, sometimes patriotically… with respect and love for one another. See? Liberal.
- Judging the Chinese
- A Near Death Experinec on the Bay Bridge in San Francisco
My second “wife” and I were about just over midway through a whirlwind western holiday that so far had included a three day train ride across America, from NYC to LA, a beautiful (maybe the most beautifulest of drives ever) up the Pacific Coast Highway, through the land of Citizen Cane and on up to San Francisco. After a few days of over-the-top partying with pals who’d just moved there, it was time to continuje on. The plan was to head through the hills to Lake Tahoe and then on down to Las Vegas for a final bit of total debauchery singing back to LA and then home again… on the train again.
Sadly Mother Nature, who apparently has a large investment there on the west coast, sadly a bigf ol’ storm had decided to roll in having us having to cancel travling through some treacherous pass we’d have to travel through to get to Tahoe. We settled for a direct shot across the hills and a quick drive through the interior of California. This change in plans started with changing our route which included a start across the Golden Gate to one which had us driving across the big ol’ bay Bridge. No bother really, I’d satisfied my bridge obsession having walked the Golden early in the trip.
The storm that shut down the pass was already raging across the city as we set out on that day’s drive. On we went to Interstate 80 and up onto the Bay Bridge. The wind was howling as we lurched our way onto the bridge, a bit of a thrill even just sitting in the car. The traffic wasn’t to tight and we were moving along quite nicely on the upper deck when, on the outside lane, I spotted a dude up ahead. He was out his car and appeared to be dragging something way to huge for one guy to be dragging, alone, in the howling wind and now horizontal rain that came with it.
I’m usually a pretty nice guy but I don’t normally stop to help strangers, doing strange things in strange cities. Against the wishes of my then second “wife” I pulled over behind him to see what was what and to see if I could give him a hand. I believe, subconsciously my bridge-loving mid simply saw an opportunity to take a walk on a big old bridge that had no walkway. Kind of the same reason I always want to sign upo for the New York City Marathon, simply to walk upon the Verrazano.
He seemed to be grateful as I approached him with a smile. As I got closer, I took a closer look at what it was he was dragging but didn’t quite put it all together until I notice the small pick-up truck he was dragging it towards. It was one of those custom fit plastic linings you can buy to put in the bed of your Pick-Up; it had blown itself out of his truck and onto the road, right here in the middle of the old big and ugly Bay Bridge in San Francisco.
I immediately got beside him to help him drag it. It was heavier than all get out. It seemed like forever but it probably only took a few minutes to get it to his car. The cars in the next lane over would slow to take a look but kept just whizzing on buy. When we got it to his truck, we moved it alongside where we’d have to lift it to place it back into the bed of his truck. If that would even work. The wind was holing so loud we really could only grunt and gesture simple plans on what we’d try to do to get it in. The plan seemed to be, lift it up and drop it into place, best we could, if it worked.
I went to the back, he stood up front close to the cab of the truck. I figured I had the easy end as it would be a bitch to wrestle it around while being behind the cap… UP we lifted it. It was a little bit lighter than I’d feared when… All of a sudden, a howling gust caught hold of it, and this huge chunk of plastic went sailing out of our hands, over the side of the bridge, hundreds, maybe thousands of feet above the roiling San Francisco Bay below. As it disappeared into the cloudy fog of a rainy blowing day, I looked at this new pal I’d stop to help and… all we could both do was to shrug. It was so loud, I couldn’t even hear if he’d had said much of a “thank you” as he got in his truck and I wandered back to my car.
From time to time, I still wake up to this day wondering what would have happened if I’d been holding this truck bed lining in just a slightly different way; if my jacket sleeve had got caught on it’s corner. Probably more than a dozen times I’ve awoken with a start as I’ve dreamed myself being flung up n’ over and off the edge of that big old ugly bridge. It’s easily been one of a dozen of those images that form in your mind as you’re walking close to another tall bridge on a nice day along it’s walkway without all that wind. As I think about it now, my son having been up and over the bridge a few times with his new Californian friend… I guess there could have been worse ways to die. I mean considering how much I love bridges and all.
- The Gender Studies Student
Social Score has been around forever, we score all our interactions instinctively, mostly subconsciously. This is how we make and maintain relationships. That said, codifying it, quantifying it digitally and given the control over our Social Score to a central authority, as ranked by strangers, customers who, in the end having nothing to fear by how I rank them is... the end of us. And in the end, I think this is exactly what these Gender Studies students, want… The end of US.
- Leaning
- Chinese Board of Directors
Just out of curiosity, as a white, English speaking male of Judaeo-Christian origin, what did I ever do to you? Specifically... I’m mean, other than call you a stuopid fucking cunt (behind your back)? What has my white, male western son ever done to you? I mean, he hasn’t even really had the time or the chance. Why does my Board of Directors need to diversify? Why can’t I open an all-boys-only club and sell what I want to whomever wants what it is I am selling? We both know why, and neither of us are stupid enough to say it to one another. Like most companies, I’ll let the marketing guys decide who looks best on my Board of Directors. Because, diversity is really just that, looking good.
PART TWO
It Came Crashing Down?
- Is Morven Even on the Meter? Just Getting Started in Amey’s Taxi, CAR 29
more on this fare later... for now... this fare...
...this was it. So far this all seemed as though it was going to be pretty much, a routine job. Some might call it a dead-end job, maybe a dead-end job with the opportunity for pleasant surprises from time to time to be more optimistic. Meh, he’d think to himself, it was better than delivering pizzas which he had one to fill the gap, the few weeks required to check off all the boxes, get the test results and the approval for his hack license. This was it though, it felt most assuredly like this was indeed the absolute end of any hope of returning to his “career”… his twenty-five some-odd (sometimes very odd) year foray into “the tech world”, digital marketing, start-ups, bright lights, big cities. This was it… small town cabbie. One door closes…
So, here he was, hangin' out, camped in ZONE 2. More than likely this was yet another rookie mistake. How much time did he waste in those first few weeks, hanging out in the wrong zone at the wrong time of day? After a dreadfully long wait camped out in ZONE 2, a call finally came over the screen; Amey’s was up to date and using tablets to display dispatch info for their drivers.
“PICK UP: (xx) Thomas Steet DESTINATION: UNKNOWN”
Sometimes dispatch would give the driver complete trip info, most times not. He assumed they thought this tactic kept drivers from turning down “short trips” or trips to parts of town they didn’t want to end up in, drive back from. Given this pick-up location, a pickup on Thomas Street, he was ready to be haulin’ some riff raff. Even after just the one day of training, he’d been in the little-city long enough to knows good neighborhoods from bad. Immediately he’s thinking. it'll be another trip to the methadone clinic, the little hole in the wall, crack in the floor shithouse over on Hickson.
As he pulled up, standing outside the address on Thomas was a rough n’ tumble but more or less harmless lookin' youngster. None to threatening, pony tailed, in construction clothing; the guy’s off to work, that’s usually a good thing. A plus for someone from this particular part of Thomas. The young guy meets him on the street... "I’m headin’ to the Kingston Solar Farm... it’s out on Unity Road"... He enters Unity Road into my GPS, no luck... probably spelled it wrong. No worries, early on in this new career of his, most of his fares where good people. I mean, it’s a small city. Kingston’s no exception and most people were more than happy to assist him in finding directions to all those places he’d one day know like he’d lived there all his life.. It would take a little more time learning how to get around this place than he had first expected... one day, with ease. He originally, probably too boldly thought, he kind of knew where everything WAS, he just didn’t know what everything was called. As he had a few too many times before, how hard could it be to figure all this out. As was always the case, and he was soon to finally learn once and for all… Nothing, absolutely nothing turns out the was one expects it to…
So... here he was on his second day in on his own, his first full morning... a pleasant and pretty nice surprise. An opportunity to take a bit of a longer jaunt, a ways up north of the tiny-hustle and little-bustle of this teenie-tiny little-limestone... oh and look… through the woods, past some sheep... things were looking up! As he dropped his fare off at Kingston’s solar power array, he noticed a bit of a mist was forming and rising off he fields. He pulled around, headed back to the pasture full of sheep he’d noticed ealier, stopped, paused his dispatch display, got up and out and sucked in the beautiful part of the day… If he was going to let his ego take a beating like this; he was still feeling this to be a huge step down. If he was going to spend some time doing what that nagging voice inside him said, was trying to quietly convince him, was beneath him… if he was… he figured he might as well shut the fuck up, take it in… see what he could get from all this… if he was going to bide his time waiting for something better to come along… he took a deep breath, turned his head towards the pale outline of the sun that was hiding behind the morning’s mist, squinting, smiling… laughing at himself for the yet another situation he’d got himself into and laughing louder at thinking it beneath him… He thought there as he was enjoying the morning. If you’re going to do the world’s simplest of jobs, might as well enjoy it, might as well do it up right.
FIND A WAY, BEFORE THE CRASH
Is the really a beginning, really an end? A better question is there really anything we call the space and the time between these two points? Maybe it all just a series of pointless “nows”, stuck together like soiled pages in that magazine you found out back… when, back... ?.. back then?
Looking back, maybe one of the few good things about the crash was it affording him an opportunity to remind himself just how much he hated loving this job. How much he hated the idea that simply driving folks, the people he lived with in this little-bitty-city around in tight little circles. How he despised liking the drive up one of these little tiny streets then coming back down the next road to, if he’d really thought about it, nowhere but the other end of this tiny town he somehow found himself, stuck in?
Uptown, towards the highway you’d use for getting out of town, up on Sir John to the 401; but not this time, first a turn, across the little city along John Counter; later, find himself going down on Princess, in the direction of Montreal, then right towards the hospitals. Taking thses nice people to and from work and off to the the trains, planes and buses that would take ‘em out of here and off to other their own tiny, shiny towns...
Every day, just how many more times up Brock and down Johnson? How many more, yet another left turns, onto Bagot... a swirling haze of thoughts from long ago days… thoughts that grabbed his attention when they shouldn’t. Memories of an argument and arguments that had only taken place in his mind, a memory of... was she an old friend? She wasn’t even a really a friend even; just someone he liked jousting with, and on occasion wanted to fuck. All this and more in his mind in a single moment, at the wrong moment, no starting point, no end...
Another illusional in-between that old life and the life he was driving around in circles in now… like so many times, before? …inbetween one chapter and the next; really what the heck was he doing thinking of her? …when... in an instant, a first ever missed signal… through a red and whamo… right into the side of a snowplow blade affixed to the front of a late model Ford F250... the crash, his first crash… this chapter of his life, this life a life that started in a lovely mist… this part of his life was behind him now...
But not before…
- The Boneheads are Back, They all Grumbled
Of course, he’d heard the local’s stories, crazed drunken street parties, overturned police cars, open bonfires on major thoroughfares, a naked teen, left for dead, tied to telephone poll in hazing prank gone bad; again, nothing really stood out as all that special or severe. Having started this new “job” at the end of summer, this gig he hated to love, his first experience with these Uni-students would be on move-in day. From what he’d been told, it was indeed a money-makin’ day. Thirty thousand or so boneheaded under-developed little almost-adults; 4,000 to 5,000 of ‘em dumber-than-dumb, fresh-faced first-year freshmen. All these freshmen moving away from home for the first time, then the only a year older and none the wiser sophomores moving into their first apartments for the first time ever. All spit n’ vigor… and gloriously kenetic enthusiasm.
Around mid-morning on move-in day, he was already having what might just have been the busiest n’ best business day he’d had so far in his Amey’s Taxi, CAR 29. Call after call, drop off n' pick-ups, one right after the other, not a single stop, definitely no camping out in ZONE 2.
The more senior students, second, third and fourth years where all coming in off the bus or train, both stations a bit further out along the edges of town than you’d expect made for a nice midrange fare. A ten-to-fifteen-minute trip to the neighborhood all these limestone-locals called, “the Ghetto”. Picking ‘em up, one fare after another, drooping ‘e,m off and turning around to pick up another and another, it was like shovelin’ coal. No backflips, U-turns or three pointers, just smooth sailing, back n’ forth. Swinging around n around in a looping, not-so-little limestone-circle.
There was the odd trip, a bit of a relief when one of the students need to zip into town or off to one of the malls or plazas to pick up something they needed to make their shitty little student house a home for the year. On one of these “relief missions” while zipping along Bath, towards the Riocan Plaza, just beyond the decrepitly old and now mostly defunct Frontenac Mall, out towards Gardiner Road, he noticed a larger than usual plane coming into the little city’s teenie-weenie airport that, until recently he’d never even really believed was really there... (he had made a mental note of plane, figuring it’s a good fare from the imaginary airport all the way to the ghetto).
After a few little trips around “the burbs”, he remembered the plane and figured, well... I may as well push on along westward, a little further out and see who and how many get off that plane... He’d never picked up a flier and figured it an opportunity to learn how the airport taxi-stand worked... he found ...a long line of "little kids" each with bigger and more baggage than the next one would ever have imagined it were possible to drag through an airport.
It’s move in day, he’d heard stories... there’s money to be made all over the ghetto but, avoid the campus if you can... avoid ZONE 6, AND, avoid the first year residence on campus at ALL COST! 'cause, it'll cost ya… it’s nothing but a long line of stressed out parents taking way too much time to tearfully say their first goodbyes to their bratty little squirts…
His fare, the next guy in line, was of course… a freshman. On his way to Morris Hall. One of the older residences on the corner of the campus.
These freshman boys really are the youngest of the lot, mentally, maturely physically and retardedly. Way more still just little kid like than the little girls who are even more little but have least started to develop a little sense. This kid was still all up n’ bouncy after a over-night flight from Calgary to Toronto, then onto his connection to our little local airport. The Norman Roger's City of Kingston Regional Air Terminal was less an Airport, more an expanded flyin' club... a big bus terminal really. All flights in and out were simply to and from Toronto.
The kid huffed his oversized suitcases, all three of them, into the trunk and backseat of the car, all wide eyed and a little nervous as kids get while doing first things first for likely the first time by themselves... This little kid was almost certainly exhausted but high on being on the cusp of starting the next big thing, the biggest thing yet to ever happen. Spunky… buzzing, scared and tingling enthusiasm dripping off the corner of his ear to ear smile.
As they pull out onto Front... as they pull out of the airport and rolled along the road that runs along the lake and leads into the city; they’d easily have gotten that fresh whiff of windswept white caps that blows off the lake in late August, early September. That freshwater alge smell that always let him know he was more or less home. The trip afforded a gorgeous shoreline view. His fare, this little guy literally exploding with joy as they rolled along towards his immediate future… he didn’t even need to glance in the rearview to see the anticipated-thrill growing in the kid’s eyes. He lets out an inaudible series of sheepishly, wow-ishy boy-like little squeaking noises,
He asked... "Have you visited Kingston before?"
...the kid had only been there once, last year, in the dead of winter for a quick overnight in and out visit while surveying a bunch of Universities out here in the East. He and his dad ha d taken a long weekend tour trying to decide which of the one’s who’d let him in he’d like best to attend... chitter chatter...
… whatcha going to be studyin'?
The boy offered little bits and pieces of his personal history n' all that kinda ho and hum fodder that filled the gaps as they drove by the old Dupont factory that looked like a small oil refinery... past the new condos… the Park and the insane asylum… the Olympic harbor and the now defunct Old Kingston Pen… into to one of the absolutely nicer parts of town…
When they break past the last lakefront house along the King Street shore, right where the view opens and you get a view of the lake again, Breakwater Park... the kid lets out a little gasp... knowing they were headed to Morris Hall, he had the kid turn his head just a little to the left, opposite this view of the lake...
"You'll be living right there..."
The next 45 minute of snarled traffic that snaked through the campus on this, move-in morning, was a lot easier with a kid who couldn’t believe his luck. He’d be living lakeside, across the road from what passed for a beach in this little-city ... Queens University really does have a stunner of a campus! Any fresh-faced moronic little kid would be happy to attend. This kid was one of the happier ones.
Grumble?
Oh sure they're a bunch of drunken idiots. They make a big mess, throw beer bottles all over the place and light things that shouldn't really be burned on fire. Many have a ridiculously unearned sense of entitlement, an over-confidence, especially when travelling in packs. They're dreadfully young, way under-dressed for any weather, goofy, annoyingly loud... but...
They’re yet to be weighed down by the day-to-day drudgery, still unbridled. They’re teaming with unchecked enthusiastic energy! Sometimes, many times he’d find his conversation with them, with all their just past teenaged optimism all kinda well… bloody well infectious, and… a much needed relief from this “moment of change” that had taken over this part of his life. He wasn’t a fresh-faced as the little boy but the moment was something new for him as well…
Welcome to Kingston boneheads!
This chapter had begun. The page had been turned. Almost arrogantly, stupidly, most likely fearfully, he still held on to the barest of threads, with little hope that something might just come along, spring out of nowhere that would fling him back onto and along the path he hadn’t yet admitted had come to an end…
BUSTED INTO PIECES
...he had the reoccurring dream again... waking up in a drenching cold sweat… he hadn’t attended a single class all semester... he did not learn how to bake potato buns, and was now faced with the exams that will decide his entire future... he looked around the exam hall for an exit. The proctor glared at him, the only one with his head still up. It was all over, unprepared, all his flaws would now be exposed…
The car, his car, good old CAR 29 crumpled instantly and busted into pieces exactly where it was designed to. The wrap-around plastic bumper simply ripped away from the rest of the body exposing just how cheaply mad and ugly these form-over -functional pieces of parts made in China-made crap cars really were. A rectangular piece of extruded pipe, wrapped in Styrofoam exposed itself as the true bumper. The car, his CAR, CAR 29 now had a bit of a Mad Max character... Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friend, why then, do we keep on...
At this moment, this very instance, he was faced with a true and paralyzing realization, this was the end of his cab driving days. Panic, sadness, fear of (at this time), not knowing what would replace this joy, how would he pay the rent, how he could easily fill the... gaps… the holes…
The great big fella that had been driving the snowplow was now staring at him, standing on the road between the plow he’d struck and CAR 29… with it’s now peeled away wrap-around plastic bumper, gnarled, crumpled on the ground. It was still loosely attached, somewhere, somehow to the front of his car... Screaming, or at least ready to scream… slowly resigning to the fact he indeed had just had the crash, he got out of the car. He let the great big fella have his say, he ripped into him.
He knew it was all his fault, ha had missed the signal, he’d run the red. He knew he had momentarily lost concentration... his train of thought. He had stepped out of the “now” one needs to be in in order to operate a motorized vehicles on a mildly busy street. He could have flown into a rage himself, at himself, a form of cover, a sad attempt to save some grace; He’d done this before, he’d often invent dramatic situations that he could get angry with rather than more aptly being angry with himself. We all do. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to hide our mistakes, our shortcomings… He didn’t want do this any longer.
He waited for a pause in the big fella’s rant to quietly say, “I’m sorry.” Really what more than sorry was there to say? It’s not like he could have explained how far away he’d let his mind wander. It’s not like he could describe how he’d been tossed into an illusion, fighting with some curly haired chick in Greenpoint Brooklyn. An imaginary tiff over some bit of un-chewed politics he’d been gnawing on all morning. He couldn’t try to explain all this away with one simple little… but, you know... “I was attracted to her.” “I really wanted to get in her pants...”
This simple little honestly spoken little sorry was likely what calmed the big fella don a notch. The great big guy’s beast act became a not completely pleasant but more easy going kinda, let’s sort this out tone. And they did, begin to sort it all out… like adults, like men.
“I saw you coming at me... “I kept think, he’s gonna stop, is he gonna stop? He’s not gonna stop, shit, he’s not gonna...”
…oh stop…
- Battling it Out on the Army Base, ZONE 21
The old hometown was usually a nice place to start a mindless conversation. The conversation eventually drifted from the old hometown to the standard "thank you for your service" spiel. The gracious spiel he enjoyed the opportunity to drop on any and all service men he’d meet. All the firemen, cops n' soldiers who’d toil away in harm’s way on his behalf.
All in all it was a nice trip and a pleasant conversation with a couple of young guys who were humble enough to know their rank was as much for public relations as it was any definition of their leadership. Sure, both had one tour under their belts, served "overseas" which, for guys of their age meant they’d served in Canada’s mission in Afghanistan and/or Bosnia. These past few years, he’d not met a military man who hadn’t served in Afghanistan, Bosnia, often both. One thing in common with all guys who’d served abroad, in battle situations; the less the say about the deployment, the tougher it was. These guys told some great stories from, well let’s say well behind the line. Good guys all the same though... no tip though... it happens.
Later tge same day, he got another opportunity to drive another opportunity, this time to take a freshly minted Major to the train station. Again, his standard “thank-you for your…” spiel… this time though, it led to the freshly minted Major’s story about a recent and interesting trip to NYC, he’d been there a few times. The Major had recently gone to the Big Ol’ City to attend the Electronic Music Festivals out on Randall's Island... a "three day" party.
Having never had made it to the Randall’s Island party, even though it would have been right up his alley, the jibber-jabbered on about this DJ n' that... it was clear the Major had enjoyed pretty much the same scene's he’d seen over the years... Outside dancing his bars off on Randall’s Island, the soldier’s shining-star story was his organizing a military-leave from Afghanistan for him and a few pals to dance to some spinners in Cote D'azur… He and the major bounded over a bunch of shit they’d seen and done over the years… "cool man".
As they turned into the VIA railway Station they both agreed on how peaceful and respectful the vibe at all those parties had been... the Major agreed to giving the band Bedouin a listen too… and he was happy to think he might... All in, a good guy... a ten-dollar tip... it happens.
It’s a little bit funny how subtle the military presence is felt in this town. A town where the harbor is essentially a strung-out fortress, a series of old building built to defend this colony from the yanks across the river. The earliest seat in Canadian Military History. The home of Canada’s scared Military College, the place where they “build the brass”. There seems to be a cannon on every corner... but, once you’re off the base, any sense of the Department of Defense seems to be on the other side of that morning’s glorious sunrise… over the Fort.
Thanks for your service guys…
WHILE IN BROOKLYN… REALLY?
It was one of those mornings when it sounded like all those voices around him, and all the thoughts inside his own head were being spoken with a Yiddish accent. A right there in the middle of Brooklyn Yiddish accent no less.
…the state of shock he found himself in had easily been brought on by the fear of losing his job, his livelihood. It wasn’t that he’d just swung around a corner drove a block down the street, missed a signal and rammed into that snowplow. In the past, he’d never let himself feel certain things. Things like he was feeling now, dread over the littlest of things… Nope, in the past he had to elaborate on it all; he had to concoct some bigger meanings… For now all he felt was remorse and dread…
He and the big fella began sorting out the pieces of this far too simple puzzle. He’d run the red, and neither of them had the time to steer away from or break to avoid the collision. Regardless of the better idea to never admit fault at the scene of and accident, he immediately and happily, not sheepishly, capitulated by admitting he was in the wrong. He was happy to immediately take blame. To do otherwise would have been dishonest and well, simply stupid. The big fella called the cops, they drifted in and out of friendly conversation as they waited...
Now, he wouldn’t admit to nor did he have to admit the details of his “brown out”. He only had to wonder aloud to having no clue as to how, why his mind had wandered off from behind the wheel.... Shaking his head, he’d only say, “I simply day dreamed my way through the light, I guess...” He said it a few different ways; likely practicing how he might say it for the police, who were still on their way... taking their sweet time as their cars, his truck and his cab littered and mostly blocked the now more busy intersection at Brock and Bagot.
They’d wait for the cops long enough to let the conversation to devolve into mindless chitter chatter. Perhaps both of them wanting to just get on with their day or perhaps wanting to feel like they were doing something a little more constructive when the cops showed up and asked ‘em to “...lets move this off the street” “...did you take pictures?”
They snapped a bunch of shots on their phones, he hopped in CAR 29, realizing he could still back up even with the bumper hanging half off... He never would give these photos to anyone, or use them for anything as, the whole damned crash seemed to just simply vanish and stopped meaning anything... after it did finally cost him this job.
The cop was very nice about the whole thing. Likely noting that the only explanation was, yet another cab driver allows himself a distraction after countless hours driving around in tight little circles along the same roads. He runs a red light and smacks into a truck... nobody got hurt. It would likely be settled without the insurance companies... he’d fill out a report and let it... what? Although it’s likely sitting out there somewhere in some file in some pile, he never got charged with anything... it all seemed to have simply disappeared, it went away... oddly quicker than these things seem to never do...
...reminding himself, just how much he hated loving this job.
How much he enjoyed doing almost nothing more than driving around and speaking with people. How he could get up each morning, a bit early even than he’d like to... Sure it invaded his most favorite time of the day, but he’d happily replaced that time of day with a good ride in a nice car. Rather than feel he had to make, or do, or build something he’d simply drive to the garage, pick up his car, sing the same song in his head and drive to the edge of the river to read his bible, pray he was growing a bit each day, say some prayer, begin his day at the boatyard and... What? Pray… ? …really?
There really is nothing more frightening than one’s routine coming crashing down around oneself. Oh, perhaps realizing you have a routine might come close, but to lose the comfortable fortress you’ve built around really doing nothing, getting very little done, in a moment, at the edge of a snowplow at the moment of impact. Fear, shock, dread... As he rolled along Division Street, now in the cab of the tow truck the owner had sent to pick up his crashed car, he awoke from the fears, still in shock to realize the next big “thing” in his life, the next moment he’d have to face don would be the reaction, the response of his owner.
“FUCK”
- We'll Now Be (more) Accepting (of) Leftovers
The other night he pushed his exhaustion through a meeting with friends, then onto another together with another friend. The next night he then pushed it what might be even bit too far beyond by trying to get a few things too many errands he needed doing, done. He had left grocery shopping to the very last minute then, upon finishing that chore up, wolfed down four frozen burgers before desperately trying to drop into bed before nine-thirty. That night, an unfathomable, almost ghostly too totally real n' unreal image haunted him all through the night. A silhouetted couple in a brightly lit doorway ate away at the good sleep he so wanted, no, needed... Upon waking he was faced with an uneasy feeling that left him unusually uncomfortable getting into and sitting in good ol’ CAR 29 then... leftovers.
His early mornings had been too quiet recently. He began wondering the last couple of weekends whether the usual remnants of another wild Saturday night would ever begin to reappear as early Sunday morning fares again. It seemed like it wasn’t going to happen again when he finally, he got the leftovers he’d been wondering about... Just after five-thirty AM. A young fella and two, young ladies all dressed in black. All giggling and bubbling with the energy he once used to have when he was much younger and then faked having when he was on something while way too much older.
This giggling, bubbling gang had him make three separate stops to drop each of them off separately across the top of town. The last to be dropped off was the fella, all by his lonesome but still laughing at himself and his situation. :”She'll likely be happy that you finished it where it was meant to finish off last night, she’ll thank you for dropping her off.” trying to persuade him that she'd likely enjoy and appreciate him making a call that he suggested he make bit later this evening. You know, to check in on her.
Another call, even, more leftovers... an older still tipsy, not yet hung-over fella... He picked up this older man who was in visiting in town from out in the county; he was to be taken from a shady looking house up in the Heights to the pick-up truck he'd left downtown, somewhere near the Lone Star. He'd just finished up a long morning’s wrapping up of what some might call a successful, yet frustrating blind, OnLine date that ended in a plea for commitment he'd no intention of accepting. He was shaking his head as he described how he was heading off home to sober up by working with his son on some rooftop somewhere. Maybe to fend off a bitter disappointment of not yet becoming comfortably positioned between his old life, his ex-wife and this newly single life... nor with all the yet to come mornings spent wrapping up late night, late in life dates that these divorced guys, trying to fill a hole, will go out on over n over n over again and again.
Then yet another pickup n' delivery to a truck left somewhere in the evening. Another lost lonely pick-up left smartly behind, somewhere down on Princess, the main street in this little town. This guy looked the player. All dressed up for golfing, a scramble-brained fella admittedly regretting having made this obligation for such an early morning tee off. On our way downtown, Division, he spent most of the time reviewing his text messages to try to discover all the stupid things he'd texted to the other players late into last evening. A few hurried call leaving those oh too familiar next morning regretful recorded apologies, all the time hoping they’d more quickly have found the pick up just where he'd left it. They eventually did find it, left him right where he'd left off the night before... and then off to the fairway...
… a break from these leftovers when he accepted a phonecall from his good old and humbling buddy, Bob.
He spoke with Bob briefly, mentioning how ...near the end of yesterday, in his state of exhaustion while speaking with good friends he’d presented the suggestion, most likely more even to remind myself... a notion that accepting is not synonymous with ignoring or avoiding, forgetting nor denying or letting things fester in hiding on one's old dusty n' dirty back shelf. Accepting seems to me more of the facing, constantly reviewing how little control over what others around me may be thinking or doing... how little my problems and worries may mean to most others. Accepting is hard workings, grasping the understanding that it's just not about me, my impact n' inputs... it's a striving to get out from underneath one's truly deceiving and ego driven self.
So, he worked through this all throughout his new hump day, slept with uneasy visions of silhouettes in doorways bringing back vividly some old painful memories of calamities he’d had consistently over some time found so utterly useful. This morning as he rode along with and drove these folks he’d call Saturday's Leftovers to their now sun lit in varied different destinations... CAR 29 remained unusually uncomfortable until Bob's call when he was able to drop off that last and unsteadiest of fares... that no longer young fella uneasily reminding me of one's foolish self-pity... this older guy apparently from time to time still holding, reviewing, reflecting and facing all those now olden ill feelings towards my own gloriously useful and treasured... leftover feelings.
THANKS GUYS!
A torn bit of Kleenex stuck to his penis remind him that he had indeed masturbated last night...
...it really was all a blur. The conversation he had with Mike, his owner. He’d gotten dinged before, had felt the guilt of having backed into a Lexus before, and having left Mike with “fenders to bend straight, bills to pay”. There wasn’t a lot to say other than the simple admission he’d given the big fella... “I zoned out, missed a light...”
“We don’t need drivers who zone out here” Mike screamed, justifiably. Get out of here for the day. You are taking the next few days off... “Give me a call a week Tuesday, I’ll let you know if I need you back...”
Well that conversation didn’t do much in the way of helping mim manage his fears that, ALL THIS had just come to an end, had come quickly crashing down around him... fears... is all this, really just an accounting of what’s done, is done?
The only good thing about that first crash was it giving him time to get his mind onto other things, (before the next crash). Time to break free of the routine for a bit. Another round of thinking... thinking he’d be doing something else someday, because he was thinking of doing “things” while really doing nothing at all. How many times in his life had he been stuck in this routine? How many times had he felt, as long as he was getting up and going, he was on his way, it was all moving it forward? ya... I’m really on top of it, this time he’d lie to himself.
The best thing about this first crash, as it would turn out to be, what? How the crash might have just shaken him into doing something he’d never have considered he could do…
- That Toot You Hear is the Sound of My Own Horn Tooting…
There was the one old gal he’d pick up from the hair salon, on Sydenham, almost every Thursday. She’d gush on and on at him and tells him how he remind her of her son; the son she raised all alone when her idiot husband left her and her two kids behind here in Kingston. He’d usually take her up to the Kingston Center and leave her at the Big-Box grocery store.
The old gals came in a few styles. There were a few quiet ones bu mostly they did love to talk and talk and talk on and on and, well he did love to listen. He had learned the joy of listening to little old ladies from his Great Aunt Margery. At family gatherings, most everyone else would eventually try to hide away from or do their best to ignore little old Aunt Marg. He’d happily slide on up and sit beside her at the dinner table or whenever else he’d get the chance and just listen to her talk and talk and talk on and on… he enjoyed her old stories, her wonderful babble.
There was another old lady who was always on the go. He had taken all over town, Saint Mary's by the Lake, the library, the mall, the doctors, dentist, beauty salon and on and on... she was always telling him the best routes to use to get to where she needed to go... and sometimes they were pretty good routes. “…you know?” …just the other day he was telling her how at his old office job, he used to grumble at clients who thought they knew a better way; clients who’d hire his firm then proceed to micromanage every last silly little detail of the job. He’d tell her how now, he loved it when his riders participated in their trip, took part, made suggestion, left right and otherwise. He had no problem with these riders telling him “Where to go", quite honestly, in the early days, he didn't always know exactly where to go anyhow.
Yet another old gal in this big old gang of sweet n’ lovely little blue haired ladies was Madge. Madge had one of those exaggerated painted on faces that seemed painted in a way to hide the twenty or thirty years she had tried desperately to convince herself hadn’t happened yet. Her apartment was located in a dreadfully awfully awkward part of Concession Street… she had a real tight bitch of a driveway to get in and out of; through what was always bad traffic to get through at the times she’d usually need to get picked up, at.
There was this one day he’d picked her up here on a wretchedly rain soaked day. He had to get out of the car to help her into his cab, fold and stow away her walker then hop back in all wet while he tried fruitlessly to perform a "back it out straight into a left turn" dipsy-doodly type of stunt driving manouver... he ended up skipping the left and rather backing to the right leaving him the need to do a way-too-quick New Yorker'esq U'ee way-too-close in front of a bunch of the sleepiest of ol' Kingston’s old daytime-drivers. It’s hard to describe how suicidal it all was.
His heart pounded a little more rapidly and rightfully so, and when he pulled it all off he felt that little extra pride when it all got done quite safely and more or less within the letter of the law... stunts. He maintained a spotless driving record, and this little old lady was quite impressed with his prowess. She seemed happy that it was him getting her where she had to go... It did get his dander up though and his racing heart made the conversation seem a little bolder that day.
Their first stop that day would be the Bank at the Plaza, just across the lot from the Big-Box grocery store. She wanted him to wait so that he could to no surprise, drive her over across the parking lot to shop for groceries. He reminded her that she’d be charged the wait time and reminded her not to take too long. Out in the rain again, he popped the trunk, grabbed and unfolded her walker, helped her up and outta the front seat; helped her up n' over the horribly too tall a curb next to the disabled parking spot, got her squared away with the walker and walked her over to the closest to the door. He got her all the way inside and went back to sit in his car and wait... and wait... and wait...
He was flicking the meter off and, on a bit, to lower the wait time charges… he was suddenly startled by this old guy tapping on his window. It caught him a bit by surprise as his mind had been wandering and his thoughts were all balled up with anxiety, wet and a little weary worried a bit about having to charge the old gal all the extra building up in wait time on the meter. He rolled down the window to see what the old bugger wanted; letting in more rain, he was ready to bark at the old fella but quietly asked curtly, "What do you want..." the old guy simply said... "I just wanted to tell you that I saw how nicely you treated that old lady. You wer very kind to have helped her into the bank... that’s all, I just wanted to tell you that someone had noticed"...
Eh, hem… All he wanted to reply back was... Just doing my job sir, after all, us taxicab drivers are Super Heroes... as the rain poured in the window he did reply, “…just doin' my job sir.” He smiled and thanked him as the old guy slipped away on his own way to quickly get himself out of the rain.
Yup, he did love his little sweet old blue haired ladies, his own Miss Daisy’s... and sure it wasn’t always the best of ways. Sure some days he’d get a little bit more than weary folding yet another walker, having to take two extra left turns or driving an extra block or two before having to unfold the walker back again and get the…
"please… you can keep the shiny quarter young man"
…tip on a $4.80 fare. You know, his father had just got himself one of those walkers... I guess maybe he so love these little old ladies was how they quite easily reminded him to do unto others as he’d have them do unto his father and his walker. And of course... He could use all the shiny nice quarters and friendly, easy little conversations he could get in the little nickel n' dime business he’d found himself in... toot, toot n' toots ya sweet little old ladies, you did make him smile.=
- A Miserable Nothing Day?
We take what we are given and enjoy the most of it... What a strangely surprising pleasure it was for him that day to watch the Jupiter atmospheric like swirls of the clouds, the various shades of grey overhead on this extremely slow day while waiting for his dispatch thing to go "ping" (it's actually more a tweet than ping)... and finally it did… go ping.
Tossing away another cheapo tax-free, Indian Reserve, "nine cent" smoke, and like the superhero he had become... seriously, why not a superhero? He did deliver people from one place to another simply by tilting his ankle and keeping his hulking steel mobile between the yellow and white lines. As all Superheroes, he filled “the need” exactly when the need needed fillin’. – He set out on yet another mission of... deliverance. This time his fare was a sweet lady who was off to fetch her own car from the garage... again, the glorious chit chat unfolded.
Somewhere in and amongst the usual pleasantries, the descriptions of their past and presents, they both noted how much they so enjoyed the fall season. They agreed that it was easily one of the four best seasons there was and how now, even with most of the leaves blown off the trees, the city was still so absolutely beautiful. He mentioned something about the swirling Jupiter like clouds… She shared how just a moments before she had been captured by the view of a gorgeous male cardinal sitting in a bush full of lingering red berries out on her front lawn. An image of a cardinals, alongside red berries against the Jupitorial swirling grey late fall clouds swerved into his driving mind. Weren't they just having a grand ol' time; him and this sweet lady just rolling along watching the rain begin to fall for the rest of the day on this pretty little city of theirs.
As they pulled into the Volvo dealership where she was having snow tires put on for the season, he noticed he could probably just fit his car under a bit of an overhang covering the entrance to the service center. He drove right up n' almost into the garage so that she could step out of the car, out of the rain. As she "cashed out" and said their goodbyes... leaving one last remark, "Keep an eye out for the Cardinals" as she shut the door ending yet another little limestone circle... Take what we're given, give a little more and enjoy the most of it... or, so it goes.
- Heaven n' Home
He was finding himself tracking certain stars, constellations, and planets each morning, noting their position relative to the moon. The moon had become a bit of a companion of late. He’d keep an eye on its position during the day, greeting it or saying goodbye as it sunk below or rose above the horizon. Other rituals include his intermittent rock tossing and the far more regular "humble stroll" around his little island, the block on which he lived and called his home.
His cab had come with its own set of rituals. Perhaps more a chant than a ritual, a regular incantation maybe; he recently had noticed himself muttering to himself, repeating "in the car NOW” … “stay in the car now"...be in the car." – Perhaps this was simply a way of reminding himself not to mentally drift too far away, to keep himself, his thinking from getting beyond the task of driving too too much. At the start of each shift in the morning he’d find himself either singing or humming an old favorite Talking Heads song, "Heaven". It had become a sort of theme song to the day’s drive.
There was no question that his cab had become a very large part of what he’d been calling this “re-uninvention of himself”. He had confided to more than one rider "...you are witnessing the end of a 25+ year digital marketing career". He’d add how much he was digging the gig and how it had allowed him to pitch the worst of his past in the trash bin. Driving cab had unchained him from the desktop.
This was probably a bit of an exaggeration. Things he’d say out loud to make himself feel better about doing a job he often felt might be beneath him. Saying it to customers was more an "ice breakers" than praise of his new life or more honestly, a confession. Mostly it was as much admission of defeat as it was the triumphant exultation of a drastic change for the better. Re-uninventing myself... sing and ancient favorite Talking Heads songs... the sites n' smells of moldering leaves and those certain algae that blooms along the shores in these part along the upper side n' lower end of the Great Lakes... his home again?
...and heaven?
Ages ago, if he were to have been asked, he’d have described heaven as the place one’s memories of friends, family and loved ones reside after passing. In many ways this still fit and was consistent with his current theology. One’s chances in heaven are proportionally related to the extent to which one leaves good memories in the minds of those left behind.
Although contrary to stated policy, conversations on religion and politics, did find their way into his cab from time to time but they were never the overriding theme of many cab-conversations. He liked focus on questions that drew opinions from his riders rather than foisting his on them. It was during his ‘downtime’ those endless moments between riders when he’d share these metaphysical questions with himself…
Listen... have you ever had the fantasy wherein you are sent back in time; you end up as yourself say 25 years (or more) ago, only now you’re that kid again but now knowing all that you know now?
There is a party, everyone is there.
Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.
Its hard to imagine that nothing at all
could be so exciting, and so much fun.
When this kiss is over it will start again.
It will not be any different, it will be exactly the same.
It's hard to imagine that nothing at all
could be so exciting, could be so much fun.
...this must be the place for him. At least for the time his cab had become a ride towards his own little bit of heaven…
- Don't be Messin' with the Nickles n' Dimes I Just Fished Outta My New-Found n' Favorite Fishing Hole
The new-found fishing hole had been pretty good to him on this day. He’d gotten a good paying fare all the way across town which led to another couple of fares out in the west end and then another coming back, pretty much right to the new-found fishing hole. The next fare he fished out of the ‘hole was a pretty, young, Nigerian Canadian gal. She was off to take the train to Ottawa and write a licensing examine; the next step towards her becoming an immigration lawyer... the long and winding journey her and her parents had set her upon when she was just a little girl, upon their arrival here in Canada.
"So, ya wanna be a loi-er do ya?" he asked in his lousy n’ botched pretend New York City accent. He was generally pretty shitty at accents, but this hadn’t yet stopped him from embarrassing himself like this. Even his shitty attempts at a bad NYC accent broke the seal on his “ya, I lived in the city for 15 years conversation” A standard bit of chit chat that made more than a few trips go by easily and pleasantly.
She giggled a bit and said something that he registered as an indication she'd be willing to “open it up a little”, even take the conversation towards some potentially precarious political ping-ponging. – It was utterly dangerous discussing "politics" in the cab; especially on the relatively long trips to the train. It takes about 10 to 15 minutes to get to the station on a good day from most places downtown, he could easily piss off a rider in five of these if he really wanted to turn on the jets.
As he and his freshly minted lawyer friend got into it, he immediately realized she was a bit of a rookie. He figured he had better lay off a bit; pulled some of his punches. He noticed her “theme” was immigration and they started to some very good volleys over the issue. There was a bit of extra traffic, the ride became a bit extended, it was a solid 15 minute drive, maybe a bit more. They discussed the ins and out of white guilt, how being nice never helps; he found a hole and was able to chime in on how he was proud of both Canada’s and the Untied States’s immigration history and some such…
Towards the end of the trip, he was really just practicing a newly devised, softer touch at these types of conversations. He was trying to pull the conversation back from the precipice before they reached the station so he could send her off on a good note. He was working in more "non-absolute" points and softening the tone; trying to employ more of his politics of appeasement styled conversational tactics. As they made the last turn towards the train, he peppered the conversation with softening self-effacing jokes and tried giving up inches here and there through the pitter-patter, lets wrap it up final banter... by the end of the trip they were both laughing, maybe a little bit. Perhaps a little less uncomfortably than if he had put her on blast as he had done with other riders in the past.
As they pulled into the station, he gave her a little encouragement and told her..."...just do the best you can on the exam; you know what you know and the only way that’s coming out is to, ease up n’ relax…” He assured her she’d be coming home to give her big ol' Nigerian dad a huge hug. Somewhere in the conversation he’d found an opportunity to remind her just how much her parents had risked to get her to Canada and getting her on this path to becoming a lawyer.
She smiled as she left the car, leaving him a nice little $6 tip…
Exorcising the ghosts one of these ghastly political conversations could leave behind in his car would always be a bit of an undertaking. He’d often kick himself for saying this, or over-think it all and obsess over wishing he had said that. It was always best to treat the next rider with an extra dose of gentle kindness; go lightly on banter and keep the conversation squarely on their immediate adventure together; the adventure that's unfolding around the new rider’s immediate need to get someplace else, in his cab.
His next fare was a young Asian fella. He picked this kid up in the new housing development by the river on Newmarket. More than a few New Canadians had bought into these new houses that were squeezed between the railway tracks and where they would soon be building the third crossing, the new bridge across the river.
The kid was on his way to his parent’s restaurant. He asked to make a "quick stop" to pick a few things at the wholesale grocer over on Elliot along the way. A good fare with stops and wait time, a few extra nickels n' dimes... he thought.
As they pulled into the wholesale grocers, the Asian kid tossed him enough "dimes n' nickels" to pay off the fare that had already collected on the meter... an odd gesture as fares were usually settled-up at the end of the trip... even if there was an extra stop. "...just wait for me, I'll just be a second or two." were the kid’s only instructions.
The kid left his bag in back and hopped outta the car. He figured the kid was nice enough; he considered the fare paid for and decided not to charge any wait time; a little trick, a gesture he’d sometimes use on good fares to squeeze out a bit of a bigger tip, a bit of extra off-meter cash he wouldn’t have pay the garage. Wait time do add up lickity-quickly on the taxicab meters here in the Limestone City.
He waited... then waited, then waited some more… hmmmm... he started getting a bit annoyed and was thinking… maybe since the kid already paid up, he could restart the meter… charge him another $3.20 drop, this would cover a bit of the wait time he hadn’t started charging... He waited some more… and a little while more… hmmmmm... what's this little bastard up to? He began to worry, just a bit. He was getting a bad feeling but figured it was just a little legacy leftover from the last fare, the ghastly feelings left behind by his oops-a-daisy that was a bit too political of a conversation with the sweet little Nigerian Lady. He tried to relax and continue to exorcise the remaining demons; these bad ‘n angry feelings lingering in his car.
…didn’t work
He started to get a bit more... even angrier than he’d ever really got over a rider before. Anger wasn’t a feeling he really could afford to let into his car. Driving angry is not only a drag on the day but by all counts, a pretty dangerous endeavor in the business, this nickel n' dime business...
Hmm... he thought.... what was this fucking little shit head of an entitled little brat up to, he was in the restaurant business, a nickel n' dime business on its own. Was this dumb kid just trying, nickel n' dime him outta… what, a little stinking "wait time"? He would have just drove off if the kid hadn't left his bag in the back.
Hmm... he waited... he was almost ready to grab the damned bag and bring it into the wholesale grocers; hand it to this dumb Asian kid in a huff and storm off over an over-acted, full on theatric scene of total dramatics...
Hmm... he waited himself into a fit of almost rage (lord please let these damned ghastlies release me!)... He waited until he saw the kid wander out with a full shopping cart full of crap for his little nickel n' dime shithole of a restaurant down on Princess… he was fuming and he let him have it!
He schooled the little twit on business the whole drive down Division. "Messin' with another man, especially another man's business wasn't in any way shape or form a good way to do business yourself!" he rambled on…
"Nickel n' diming any suppliers is a false start that'll blow a whole fart load of pain your way if that's the way you think you'll make a go of it at your own stinking little nickel n' dime business"...
He scolded him and made it quite clear how this lecture wasn't over his own lost dollar here, the nickel and dime he’d lost out on kindly turning off the wait time while he went… grocery shopping. He made it clear to the stupid little kid that he'd squandered his time... It wasn't about any nickels or dimes, it was the opportunity costs, what he had lost by having to just sit there… waiting, with the meter not on, not being available to take other calls... Most of all he tried to impress upon this kid that this disrespect would come back to haunt him in his own business one day.
The kid may have got it, maybe a little a bit of it… probably, not.
As he helped the kid unload his big pile of garbage, all the wholesale groceries onto the curb by the door of his parent’s restaurant (he was still schoolin' the kid as they unloaded the trunk) ... the kid handed him a twenty and a five on a nine-buck fare and told me to keep the change... "does that cover it?"... "No, not really…", the kid obviously hadn’t caught on that it wasn’t the money at all; he mumbled a quick thank you and was off... cashed out.
He was hoping a little of it had sunk in and wishin', thinking maybe he would have handled it a bit differently if it weren't for the leftover ghastlies from the ride with the pretty young Nigerian future lawyering lady.
A pause by the side of the road; he jumped out for a quick smoke and a sigh. A definite de-unengineering of the last two drives and finally a chance to exorcise... fucking nickle n' diming... He thought, maybe this little incident was why he was no longer in business; he half thought some more and then thought better... nope. He still felt good for never having run any of his businesses that way... nickel and diming… but...
He wasn’t ever gonna tell a single one of these folks, especially the other fellow cab drivers where exactly his new-found n' favorite fishing hole was... after all, this old hole? Well, that's just none of your business.
- A Routine Job
This day… just like the other days, just another regular old n' routine sort of a day. It started a little differently than most days, maybe. After checking his fluids, he turned the key and logged on to find himself at number 1 in Zone 3… Rather than racing down to the boatyard… He was up for an early morning's pitch dark drive through the Height...
After a spin down Compton at 5:42, a pickup at 766 John Counter on route to the very end of Rigney... a way up by the railway…
"...oh, thankfully I'll be laid off soon if they don't give me a plough.” said the nice young fella with the biggest lunch box I've ever seen. The guy was in the dirtiest work clothes… then off to pickup a construction worker, a former crane rigger at Kimco and …down from the Heights and on with the day.
In towards the heart of the City of Kingston. Down Division today, again simply to do it all slightly a bit differently... He headed for Zone 4, what they called the Wartime. He sat there for few more minutes than he would have liked to…
..read his readings, chanting a few chants, and after casting a few incantations he’d had had just about enough, when...
…it started raining…then it stopped, then it wouldn’t stop… then harder, softer, harder and all through this… a regular old n' routine of a day.
Around 6:33am he was at four hundred and something Bagot, off to Kingston General Hospital [KGH]... at 6:57am he drove back over to 135 Ontario Street then on up to the Rail Station... it’s 7:21am and he’s off up Princess, way up to the Best Western just a bit west of Sir John A, to Starbucks at Wellington... then at 7:48am a hop over to... a pickup at Four Points Hotel going all the way over to Place de Armes behind the K-Rock (thank goodness that was Cancelled).
This average old n' routine day really got rolling with a nurse on Bagot… not one of the many nurses he’d been getting to know on those way too early mornings they hurriedly have to jump into his car, late for their early shifts… He did love driving the nurses and could usually get 'em giggling… those mornings they had slept in... again!
He zipped back into Zone 1 to grab an older woman, a retired nurse? A professor? Then down on Ontario, another run up to the station…
She’d be meeting friend along her way to Toronto, they were off to visit the Aga Kahn, a new Islam Museum in Toronto with a great collection of Muslim Art... He’d have to go see this place, he thought to himself, and thanked older perhaps retired woman.
Then down from the station to the Best Western on Princess to fetch a corrections officer in for a prison conference at Four Points.
At 7:51am a cancellation… a pick up at the Delta to Transformix Robotics a way out on Gardiner... Then at 8:20am a "back flip" to Bittersweet Place then turning back, all the way down Princess to the Tim's on Macdonell… afterwards at 8:45am, over to Mack Street and again off to the Rail Station.
When Four Points was a bust, dispatch threw him a bone and had him take a couple of Italians, serious businessmen a way out to the west end to meet with some robot makers who were making them angry... Apparently the robots they had contracted Transformix to assemble to make the thing that makes mist squirt from their perfume bottle was a bit behind schedule. His only question, weren't there enough Italian Robot factories? What had them looking for someone to assemble these misty thingies here in Kingston rather than back in Italy? A business-like smile and a friendly nod... then he was off to Bittersweet Place… We might never know how happy he was to find out that his new home, The City of Kingston had a street named "Bittersweet Place".
Another construction worker, this one quite careless with no lunch box; just a kid who had lost his license in bittersweet fashion...
"that'll teach you" he told him.
He agreed and promised he'd learned his lesson and wouldn't do, you know, that, ever again. He led me to believe he knew what it’d cost him... almost...
Then off to Mack for another in a long line of professors …in the backseat of the cab. This professor worked in the drama department, the Theatre Arts Department. HE was the author of a play called Brebeuf's Ghost. The professor seemed rather nonplussed when he told him he’d come here to work for a Theatre Director and that he'd seen his students perform Galileo's Daughter at the University Theatre towards the end of last year... He had a touchy time with these professors... they had an attitude, that was just about as uppity an attitude of my own.
Just… a little bit later, 9:42am, another hotel stop along Princess. This time the Peach Tree… off down to the hospital, again… At 10:09am it was over to Shopper’s Drug Mart’s back door on Bagot over to the Queen’s campus again, Mac Cory Hall...
…then way back over across town at 10:23am to Sydenham past Bay, almost too close for comfort and down to the Lone Star...
Yet another stop along the lakeshore 10:40am, down Ontario to Shoppers Drug Mart’s… back door… again
"How's my cologne smell?... I mean, is it overpowering? ...it’s the cheapest I could find at the Dollarama last night" said the huge n' happy n’ jovially round n’ puffy man from Grand Prairie Alberta. A fuel truck driver who seemed happy that so far, he didn't have any stories of his own truck exploding... one did catch fire though.
He had a belly laughing posture but with anxiety in his eyes... He was off to visit his ex-wife, on her last days in the palliative care hospital...
"She’s the mother of your children?" he asked the man from Alberta quite quietly…
He described his boys as… the oldest, the smart one is not doing too well, the one in the middle caught in a revolving detox puzzle. The youngest one, the dumb one, is doing the best of ‘em all…
Oh, and the cologne? He pulled out the extra Pine Tree car freshener he had in the glovebox; and jokingly told old jovial fella to rub it all over his neck, face and chin… these Pine Tree car fresheners are likely much cheaper than… the smelly cologne he'd found last night at the dollar store all on his own.
The morning’s off n on. Hard and soft rain had became a monsoon as he drove an Indonesian student with heavy and very British accent to class.
He picked up a young couple and drove 'em on back to Shopper’s… back door.
“I think I may have missed the opportunity to introduce you to the Lone Star Bartender”, no worries there'll be other pretty routine n' regulars, on any other old day… the next one, it’s likely is already happening now.
Back downtown at 10:55am for another try at the Four Points this time success and off to, the Rail Station... again… then all the way back for an 11:35 pick up at the bank branch on Bagot to the Bus Station...
Up in the Heights again at 11:55am and it’s off to the upper corner of the City of Kingston. 44 Virginia to the Credit Union at the decrepid old Kings Lake Plaza... and back... 12:20 re-pick-up at Kings Lake Plaza to 44 Virginia... again.
You may have read it in the papers already, in the next few days, Canada’s wee little Army will be putting boots on the ground in Iraq... or so I was told by a Lt Colonel who’d been attending a Military Futures, Readiness Conference...
Frighteningly, like all the brass he’d had in his backseat, this fella was younger than he’d ever been. Three tours in Bosnia two in Afghanistan, the Colonel couldn't wait to get back on his battlefield to do battle again. His family? They understood him... And then, as was his custom, he thanked the Colonel for his service and asked him as he stepped out of the car to “…do keep an eye on our boys... after all, you’re the Lt Colonel”. The officer was a gentleman and gave him a nice tip which left him wondering... was that nothing but tip mongering ploy?
The fella I picked up at the bank at the corner of Brock and Bagot had come to town to sort out his aging parents affairs and... was staying in Kingston until “…it was finished”.
The guy was an RMT with a laser surgery practice and a new member at the Kingston Yacht Club. He took the chance to asked him if he'd consider crewing for him on race nights? "Will I see you at next week's wine tasting?" ...not likely, but he was looking forward to seeing this David fella, maybe a new friend again.
Oh dear another Bus Station drop off, then back in the Heights… this time to drive ol' Jack to the Plaza then back. A sweet old man who reminded him of some old TV actor couldn’t quite put his finger on...
Jack had read the name on his taxi drivers badge and called him by name many times during the trip down to the Plaza and back. “Thank you, I look forward to seeing you again”.
It was 12:57, back to the Shopper’s back door on Bagot n’ over to Goodes Hall. Then up for a coffee and a pee and a pick up at 13:31 at the Maple Family Pharmacy...
…over to Village Drive up and tucked over by the river... then at 13:59 a No Frills grocery call that took him to Patrick and Raglan... near his home.
These routine days could get kind of rugged, grueling, even tiring at times… He had learned to smile through it and with a happy hello... "are you partially blind? …I mean, do you need some assistance?” he asked the fella who walked gingerly from the pharmacy
The fella had no end of trouble squeezing himself ever so awkwardly into the car. "...nope, just a rare form of spinal arthritis"... that's all.
Then a couple that spoke mostly with themselves except when he told them they were neighbors of his, that he lived just around the block that he live on…
He'd done two stints in therapy and is applying to become a councilor...
…seeing how he's been through it… he helped with their groceries... "looking forward to seeing you around"... and all.
2:15 To the hair dresser on Sydenham to the Cataraqui Centre ...
…a short wait in the rain
2:45 at the Cataraqui Centre to Warburton... and then 3:01, MacKay Street to the Metro Grocery at the Gardiner Town Centre... down to another end of Kingston off Day's Road
3:22 Chelsea Street to The Keg... downtown again.
…a happy little n' goofily bitchy little girl taps on my window and asks that I drive her to her parents where she's living after a split with her boyfriend and losing her job... As we pulled into her driveway, he had noted the tree swing hanging in a tree in the front yard of the house she felt too old to live in and asked her... “is that yours?"
"...is that accent Greek or Russian?" he asked the wizened old lady. The question perked her right out of her grumpy old demeanor, he'd given her some leeway as she was all soaking wet.
"Ukrainian" she corrected...
…then they proceeded to sort out which of her countrymen she liked and which others don't like the Russians. She was neither here nor there on the Russians but don't bother her with the Poles. As he unfolded her walker and helped up n' out of the car, she smiled and asked… "...I do live quite close". Sadly, he said, he had to go...
Eating last night’s leftover pizza …the restaurant manager he'd driven with downtown a few weeks ago. He said very little, make me feel a little un-comfy but leaves a nice tip and a smile as he gets out and gets off to work.
Finally, it’s almost over… 3:52 with pick up at Staples on Queen to Concession and then over to Kingscourt... then he’d finish the day 3:56 just up from his home at Raglan to Diana’s Fish restaurant... er, Market.
Just another… done already? ...rough n' tumble and regular old routine sort of a day... with no real surprises, just extremely nice people, one after the other that he picked up, spoke with and learned a little something of as they went along on their way...
Twenty or more little stories. He didn’t have to make any of this stuff up… just listen and prod and asked one or two questions more than the last fella who didn't really show much of an interest… and… how was your day going? How was it?
Truly, honestly, seriously even, he needed to know this...
He’d not heard anything like it before.
[RESTART THE CRASH STORY HERE]
AND WITH A CRACK, HE BROKE THROUGH THE ICE
- I Drove Her Part Way Back to The City This Morning
He'd taken a humanities professor part way home to Sweden and a marketing executive partway to Atlanta… He once took three suspiciously fit and very large military fellas from their headquarters to… er… maybe somewhere in the Middle East… maybe… for a while. One day he picked up a very nice woman early one morning at the ferry docks and drove her part way to China; well actually part way to Hong Kong. This morning had him picking up a young lady at the Frontenac Club on King. She was on her way… “I’m headed back to New York City…”
“Oh… really... ?”
He’d had a few fares who once lived in The City; the exec off to Atlanta, one of the nurses had for a time been an actress and lived down in the East Village. He had driven plenty of folks who had visited there, many who’d easily been there plenty of times and He always enjoyed comparing our notes… Something just struck him about this nice young woman on her way home this morning; a new mother… she jumped into the car and off they headed for New York City.
Her place was on Bergen just down from Smith Street, a mere five blocks from The Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary, an old converted school house on Cheever’s, the first place he had called home in Brooklyn.
“Right, you get on the F Train at the front...”; as they talked, his smiles grew wide as he glanced glanced over his shoulder, “…looks like we were once good neighbors”. He told her about all the places he had lived, she told him some stories, they chatted at that city pace, that rapid banter that suddenly seemed vaguely familiar. Of course, they mentioned that day and the towers but didn’t linger; that day’s quickly becoming simply a knowing nod between folks who’d both been there. He had a whole list of things to go over with her, things like the playgrounds she’d soon be using… He couldn’t stop smiling throughout their whole conversation..
It had happened a few times upon arriving at the Railway station... while grabbing her bag from the trunk of his car… there was a subtle pause in their chatter, a mutual urge to give each other a hug, like a brother and sister would as they said their goodbyes. He blew her a kiss and as she headed off home, back to, The city…
The rest of the morning; twinges of homesickness for a home he missed completely and quite likely would never even ever see ever again. Maybe he was even just a bit lonely, certainly missing his son, but then, incredibly happy to know that someone he’d just met would be taking a smidgen of a nice moment back… home to his city, his big ol' New York City… a really the nice place... to get part way back home to this morning.
- A Uniform Love in a (Young & Old) Man’s Heart
At a particularly busy point on this busy morning, he got a rare call to pickup all the way in the heights while he was downtown, a bit of a challenge. He rose to it, racing up Bay to Bagot, speeding up Bagot while barely slowing at the single stop sign, the “Russel Twist”, left n' right onto Montreal then playing the angle on Railway over to Division... a bit of “freewheeling” and rule breaking was doable in the early hours of the day, it was still a small town… If it weren't for a Wonder Bread Truck; actually getting stuck behind a truck was fortunate as he rode that, at speed while passing in front of the Police Station. He caught a fortunate green at John Counter, another at the No Frills intersection, swung right onto Benson and was at the Day's Inn door in, by no stretch of the imagination... four minutes... flat... out to the Inn. – Small things can make one feel good about themselves in an easy job like driving cab.
He picked up a Cadet, a first year, in uniform, a tradition this kid seemed to respect as he seemed to be a pretty respectful kid. One would hope the RMC kids would be respectful seeing how they are our Nation’s future Military Brass, our future leaders. Young men who at some point a ways off in the future will be called upon to…
There are three types of student in Kingston. The Community College kids are on a mission. They want to get into school, complete their programs, get a placement or two, graduate and get a job, it’s a straight line for them, learn a trade and GO! The University students are all over the place. Sure the future doctors, lawyers and engineers seem to have their shit together (keyword, seem), but most of the undergrads seem to be floating around on their parents credit cards looking for inspiration. The RMC Cadets are of the same ilk as the Queen’s student but have their heads bolted on straight. They’re getting a free education in exchange for service and the Royal Military College is simply the first step in a career that’s basically already begun. That said, they are still just a bunch of dumb kids.
...for all intents and purposes the kid he’d just picked up was AWOL, out past curfew. He had a pretty good “civilian” excuse seeing how he'd invited his gal down from Quebec for the Ball. The kid hadn't seen her for months. On the somewhat tense ride to the college he assured him that there had likely been more than a million military men before him who'd risked the wrath of their superior officers in order to spend the night in a far superior situation; the kid certainly sounded much in love with a first year, his young lady and spoke of her with as much respect as he was showing the uniform. He dropped him off with a suggestion that, rather than sneaking back into his barracks, he should confront his superior as soon as possible that morning with an explanation of his situation and admit that he had broken curfew. The kid told him that’s what he had intended to do all along...
"...good, now GET IN there." he said with a smile.
The very next call was right there on campus and had him plucking a young lady in a gown with Queen's University Engineering Jacket draped over her shoulders, straight out of the clutches of yet another young military man, most likely out of uniform, in the adjacent dorm. She'd had a grand time at the Ball after all... The kids seem to call this "the Sunday morning walk of shame". He had decided he’d call it "the walk of infinite n' pleasant possibilities." – The way he saw it, it was another beautifully gorgeous Sunday morning. The sun's shining and the young lady along for this ride in his cab was all smiles…quiet and happy, all the way back into the city... Why cheapen a moment, he thought, she was a good uniformed young man... she was smiling… rather than something shameful she may just have taken the first few steps on the best days of her life.
...quite a bit earlier that morning, mixed in with all the ruckus of these kids having a Ball, He had pick up an old fella at Emergency Ward at the Hospital. A frail old fella who looked lost and bewildered as I drove him home in the dark to his lovely old home over on William. Are you alright? He was doing OK; he'd been with his wife all night... she wasn’t doing so well. By his general demeaner and exhausted appearance, you could tell the old guy probably wouldn’t be bringing her home, again… he stayed by his driveway for a few extra minutes before...
He picked up a couple more couples who looked ready to spend a nice next day together then another guy and a gal who had called two cabs to go their separate ways... A girl in a hurry to get from the Holiday Inn to what I figured was her own place up on Johnson.
She was adamant about being in this hurry... he hit every green light right on the button and asked her "...was that fast enough for you?" as she stepped out of the car with a smile and said... that it was OK.
...a bit later that day I got a call, a pickup on William, the old man got in and asked, "...have I been in your cab once before?"
He told the old guy, a sweet old former professor that he’d drove him home from the Emergency Ward earlier that morning. The old guy looked a little more rested, but still rather bewildered; his wife had had a few falls over the last week and this time wasn't able to get up. He asked him if he had been able to get a little sleep. The fella rambled on a bit about this, that, and anything but how his wife might now be doing.
The old guy was still a bit tired, a bit frail so he needed a bit of extra help to get out of the car. The old guy walked very slowly around the and he held to Emergency Door open, literally shooing him inside with "get in there ol' fella!" as if to lighten his moment waving gesture to emphasis... KEEP it MOVING.
It was a happily busy little morning, and he did keep it moving, at points it was a hoppin’ even racing indeed... what a ball... with all this balling after all.
- Beautiful Boys... Just Beautiful
“I’m the only one in my family who's never been in an ambulance.” …
Yup… all Hunter’s countless brothers and sisters had been hurt, either had accidents or done one dumb thing or another that had ‘em whisked off to the emergency room at the hospital. One of his brothers gave Hunter no end of mischievous pleasure when he slipped and cut his butt on the broken soap holder thingy in the shower. His mother would later corrected Hunter’s story by pointing out that the brother who had cut his butt was able to be fixed up right in the ambulance, outside their apartment on Compton, he never had to go to the hospital… splitting but hairs as far as Hunter and I were concerned. After all his original assertion was, they’d all been in an ambulance, not to the hospital.
Boys n' their moms… The mom crazily fretting their choosing to waste a bit of the budget on cab fare in order to make the hectic bits n’ pieces of their day fit together, the boys… cool, I get to spend an afternoon in a cab!
“What’s your name?” “I bet you’re… what 8, 9, 10?”
He knew enough about boys to know you should always guess a higher. What little boy doesn’t want the old taxi driver to think he’s older than he really is… ? …it’s a odd guess with boys, a bit tougher as there’s really little difference between a 6, 7, 8, 9 or 10 year old little video gaming addicted Minecrafters. All boys can be a funny n’ jumpy little bunch when in the back of his car. He knew the questions boys wanted to be asked, and he knew the questions that would draw out the answers that would drive their moms crazy… easy enough, the same questions. Hunter loved it when I asked these questions; he enjoyed driving his hectic mom crazy.
Earlier that morning he had picked up Dawson on Stephen. Dawson had missed his school bus… well, we can be be more specific insomuch as his mother missed getting him to it and on it. She lifted her son out of his chair and into the back seat of the car, giving him that, “a little help would be nice please” look. Before she had to actually say anything, which might have been rude, he jumped out, opened the trunk and proceeded to fiddle with the chair; pretending to know what he was doing.
“The seat part comes off like normal …but the back is different.”
As she gave him very specific and thorough instructions on how to disassemble the contraption so that it could be folded and stowed in the trunk, it dawned on him that the scope of these instructions suggested she wouldn’t be coming along for the ride and that he and Dawson would be off to school together on their own-some… awesome.
"...would you like me to give you a call when I get him to the school?"
As they started off, Dawson was mumbling loudly about some chocolate mouse and Snoopy flying a plane, or something… oh…
“…did you see the Santa Parade on Saturday?” he asked.
Ya! “They had… this and this and that and that and that and…”
Bumpity bumpily…
“Why do you keep asking me where I live?”
“No you asked ME where I lived” … oh (?)…
“I like when you say bumpity bumpily”
Dawson decided to say bumpity bumpily again and again, he kind of sang it over n' over again as they hit every pothole, bump, rut n' ridge in the road he could find on the way off to Dawson's school… up in the Heights. He and Dawson were having such a wonderful little wee of a time he made a wrong turn. As he turned around, correcting the mistake he clicked the meter off early…
He got out, unpacked Dawson’s chair from the trunk and re-assembling it just as his young mother had shown him. It really wasn’t that difficult as the bits and pieces re-assembled in a pretty logical fashion. He lifted Dawson out of the backseat and carried him to the chair. What a wonderful feeling to have a little boy in my arms again… After putting his little feet n’ the foot holder thingies and buckling up his seat belt, he noticed there wasn’t another sole in sight at the school to hand awesome Dawson off to… he noticed another little boy running in the direction of the main door to the school, head down; he figured this other kid was a bit late. As they all got nearer to the doors. “Can I bring him in this way” he asked the kid.
sure… “Do you know Dawson?”
Ya… he’d seen seen him around… We went into the school, I grabbed the taxi chit from the secretary as some busy young teacher whisked little Dawson away before giving me one final chance to say… bumpity, bumpily… or goodbye.
Later that day, he got a call to take Kingston’s new, young maestro, to the railway station. The Maestro was flustered, busy and needed to add a stop for, of all things an extra clothes hanger that had almost ruined his day… The trip started mad hurriedly but as they settled into the main dash to the station, the extra distance they added to go get the hanger had given them some extra time to review each and every minute ins and out attribute of The Isobel, Kingston’s relatively new music hall. This line of conversation tuned Evan down a notch and like everyone else, given the chance to tell their story pushed him back from the edge of anxiety in thinking he might miss his train; he wouldn’t want to be stuck in Kingston after all; after all it was just the little town that had given him the opportunity to be a very young, maestro.
They went over the various ins and outs of what it’s like to be a symphony conductor in a littler place like Kingston …”sorry for the bumpily, bumpities” he said, or rather sang to the wee-city’s newest boy-maestro; he sang out bumpily, bumpities almost without thinking as they bounced over one of the more rugged level rail crossings…
Another pleasant cab ride… calming an anxious rider with his oh so superior superhero like driving abilities and his johnny-on-the-spot accurate choices in chitter-chatter... Being a bit later in a good day this was likely the 20th or so trip of almost 30 that day… bumpily bumpity… he’d be thinking… if this is all he’d get… all these boys, these beautiful little boys today… if this is all he’d get… then he’d take it... bumpily bumpity, he’d take all he could get., beautifully.
- The Good ol’ Day
Early on inm this month’s check-day, he got “the call”, what would turn out to be a typical check-day call up to Montreal Street. Picking up at these ram-shackled row of houses near where they’d eventually be building the new bridge, across from the Bingo Parlor; off to the Government offices across from the Kingston Shopping Centre “with/STOPS”…
As he pulled to a stopped on the potholed n’ pitted unpaved driveway in front of the worst house of the lot, an extremely twitchy n’ fidgety undefinably mid-aged gal dashes from the doorway and lunged into the backseat of his cab “...wait for my friends, there’s more of us.” As a couple of dirty n’scraggly and as equally twitchy fellas get in, one in front the other in back with his gal, one of them tells me we’re off to the Disabilities Offices; asking if we’re able to make a stop afterwards at the check cashing place… I guess so… he hit that gas and though, oh well… here we go.
Driving around with three fidgety n’ twitchy crystal-meth heads can be a challenge if you want to make it one. The conversation is erratic, overlapping and idiotic. He found it best just to be mindful, a bit careful not to say anything that might confuse or provoke ‘em. He cracked a few inside jokes, mosty pitter-patter designed to let ‘em know, he’d “been there” or at least near the same neighborhood they now were residing in, in their retarded addictions… They were a bit more docile than other meth-heads he had had in his cab. He found himself slowly descend into a more playful mood, deciding it’d be best just to play along with them. It was almost as if he’d joined them on this mission somehow and that they were all in this together. Just four pals, three of ‘em twitchy, off to get what they were after. It helped that they didn’t smell so bad.
Getting them out of the car at the government office in some organized fashion was a bit of a chore. He had to remind them that they’d likely all need to pick up their checks in person, so they’d all have to go. He wasn’t too worried and felt certain they’d all come back to continue their ride… it was still all a challenge. He offered to pause the wait time a few times, to save ‘em a few dimes. He was happy to see ‘em leave behind a worn out old bag and a dirty n’ ripped up jacket; their valuable belongings… they finally all got out and into the offices then after a too long and bit worrisome wait, they were back into the car, checks in hand, with a silent hooray for one and all!
After a mostly hairbrained and scrambled discussion, they decided that indeed, he was to take ‘em to the check cashing place; a plan that had already been hatched before they had even called a cab. Even so, all thing considered he was quite proud of his new found n’ fleeting drug addicted pals having hatched what might have appeared to be such a simple plan… step one, get check; step two get checks cashed; step three… here we go.
On their drive to the Money Mart on Division between Queen and Princess, he peppered his sporadic involvement in their conversation with stories of his own glory-days… they continued along, planning in fragments. A now more excitedly babbling incoherence had taken over, the overall mood in the cab was definitely improving… they were soon all going to have cash money!
The two guys got out at the Money Mart giving him and the undefinably aged gal the opportunity for a nice little chat. She inquired over some of the snippets of his own druggin’ days he’d mentioned on the drive over to the Money Mart. He got a chuckle telling her the story of how he’d taken a dump in a garbage can out front of an apartment building one dark n dreary night in Brooklyn “waiting for my man”. He described the friends he’d made here in Kingston, some of these folks much in the same condition as her and her pals; “friends” he’d take to the methadone clinics here in town. He noticed she found the latter topic quite relaxing.
When the fellas returned the conversation turned to “...where next?”
The guys were a bit hushed, cash in hand, a bit more withdrawn, protective maybe at first until the young lady assured them that he was indeed “…one of them"
They eventually found her story believable perhaps because he had it in “his eyes” after all… and then, yet another challenging round of crazed conversation in scrambled pursuit of some decision making... It was finally decided that, despite possible earlier agreements, wiser decisions they’d made long before jumping in the cab; they wanted him to take them to… you know, the guy. So it was off to the location… For a split-moment, he almost had a fleeting notion of parking his cab and joining them for their afternoon’s endeavors… just a moment.
Reality though, he did have a thought... “ what was my role in all of this?” Honestly, as they sat at the curb just a few doors down from the location, like so many locations he had “waited down from before...” He sat thinking for a moment, having a smoke... he had waited and waited like this, in front of various apartments many a long ago. Loads of lost memory swirling ‘round inside his now spinning head... old thoughts, along with the thought… What is my role in this? …a role he felt particularly troubled with was the role some Kingston Police might assign him as they all stood there, parked at the curb breathlessly waiting for that older, twitchiest of scraggly fellas to come back with… you know, NO, I don’t know, officer? Having had this thought, he decided, he should really look it up one day. The older dirty guy finally did get back to the cab, hands in pockets... They got our crazy ol’ show back on the road.
They were now nearly in view of it all being in “full swing” very soon. he watched as this scraggly bunch transformed from scatterbrained and twitchy, undefinably aged bent over n almost dying drug addicts into a gang of almost too-happy gleeful pre-teenagers… they had step One: got their checks; step two cashed their checks; step three, spent their checks… woohoo! But first, another scramble to decide which convenience store would be best to make a stop for chips n’ pop n’ other stuff, various bits of paraphernalia he assumed, “...this one has that but doesn’t sell lotto tickets, that one has lotto but doesn’t sell that, we need this and that… and lotto.”
He was exhausted with these fools by the time they all got back to the ramshackled-shack up on Montreal Street. They’d run up a forty-sum odd dollar fare, paid it without a whimper and gave him a whole five-dollar tip from their quickly dwindling pile of dough the government had just handed them. As he pulled his car out of their driveway, as quick as he could, he rolled down all the windows, not to let any smell out… but rather, just to let air in. He pulled into the nearest parking lot, out of their line of sight, as if they'd even bother looking. He got out and lit a smoke as quick as he could. What a ride, that ride. It had its moments of course, at times it was fun while it lasted and they got up to some crazy old conversations but in the end about absolutely nothing at all. – In the definitely very end of it though… he was truly glad… that all that was over with... derogatorily... check-day or not.
- God Only Knows
...the company he drove for used a cleverly devised automated GPS driven dispatch system, similar to UBER but not as slick and mostly driven by live operators at the central office. The driver’s whereabouts, zone, location etc and status were kept in the system; when a request for a ride came in, it would be routed to the first available car in the zone in which the pick-up was to be made. If the zone was empty, the system finds the closest car in the adjacent zone. There was a little gaming some drivers could pull off, but for the most part, getting the next ride was simply a matter of where n’ when you are, who’s the closest… luck, fate… providence... who really knows?
The city was carved up into 20 some odd zones. These zones originate downtown in Zone 1 and stretched outwards into the thinner, more spread-out parts of the City; stretching as Kingston does, straight out and on into the wilderness. The single digit zones more or less cover the city proper; the “teen” zones covered the west end while the zones in the 20s cover the east side of the city, the Armed Forces Base, and mostly more freshly minted subdivisions on the East side of the Cataraqui River. The city of Kingston’s post Harris’ amalgamated taxicab service stretched pretty much from Nappanee to Gananoque and a way on up to Battersea to the North.
These zones worked more or less as any city’s traditional “taxi stand” might work. Taxi stands are, you know, those long lines of empty cabs you used to see idling outside of the landmarks, grocery stores, bus and railways stations in your city. When a taxi drives into one of Kingston's 20+ or so odd zone, they are virtually “lined up”, behind the other cabs already in that zone and receive calls for pick-ups in order of arrival in the virtual line. Zones “churn” at different rates at different times on different days. He knew there’s a rhythm to this city. He could already begin to feel it after a few days driving hack, but it did take a while for the rhythm to be less erratic, fickle. Often it seemed to depend on nothing more than the color strength and intensity of each morning’s sunrise…
Each zone has a mix of businesses the odd attraction or special location and a mix of residences. Kingston’s General Hospital and the University were the key features of Zone 6. Zone 13 was all about the malls and drive by shopping strips. There was another smaller mall, the plaza and the central transit bus hub in Zone 8. Like any given city, Kingston’s neighborhoods were indeed demographically divided but mixed up all over each zone. There are enclaves of this over there and a few ramshackle blocks of that over there in each of the zones. That said, Zone 3 was definately chock full folks with very little dough and a lot of low income housing while downtown, Zone 1 was home to all the old n’ finery, the “Earl Street Mansions” and lake shore condos. Zone 6 was a little more well to do, but all Zones 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 had various shades of what was left of the middle classes. Varying states of disrepair, despair and get me outta here’s. Zone 2? It’s full of zombies, weirdos and well-meaning young couples… His own house? It was exactly on the edge of Zones 1 and 2. Like I said, it’s a pretty mixed up little and relatively older City.
There was only a little more than an itty bitty skill to “working the zones”. Other than developing the aforementioned inherent feel for the city’s rhythm, it’s ebbs n’ flows, vibrations and minute by minute undulations. Auguring your expectations and aligning ‘em with the sunrise you saw from the river’s shore early in the morning could be a challenge, but a skill… ? …that could be learned? Or a feeling, a twinge n’ twingled sense of what’s going on around you… He supposed for a moment that even without much sense at all he seem to be doing OK. He was pulling good enough numbers to keep his car’s owner happy. At least, he looked happy… well, he hadn’t yelled at him yet. He’d heard a few drivers say, he might one day. Skill, sense, or twinge n’ twingles… The only real choices he had to make each day was… “…should he stay or should I go now?” say if he dropped a fare off at the train station in Zone 11. AND, if he idi decide to “…go now”, the only decision next… go where?
A drop off at the train station... “go where?” The station drop off leaves you in Zone 11, a pretty dead zone with nary a zombie to be seen most of the day on any given day really. When bolting from the train station you’re quickly thrown into Zone 8… an OK zone most of the time, at least during that day. His gut rule was: “back to the middle”, in other words when in doubt always head back downtown to Zone 1. Even if you arrive as the 5th, 6th, or 7th cab, you won’t wait too too long to be fairly assigned a fare… but… his gut sometimes told him it’s a quicker drive to Zone 3’s lower income neighborhoods, you know all those good people with no cars…
Who really knows what lead him to the zone he was supposed to be in next to pick up the next best conversation he’d have that day? There are a few things he had to reminded himself each time he found himself sitting and waiting in a zone that didn’t seem to be churning… First, don’t second guess your earlier self too much. That fella you were just a few short seconds ago felt something… wait for it. You never know and certainly there’s no joy chasing the phantom churnings from zone to zone… Second, you didn’t just miss the call or the conversation of the century in that other zone, the one you should have maybe gone to, nope that call n’ conversation is waiting for you… just on up ahead. Thirdly and most importantly, you get the fares you’re going to get, where n’ when you get them… and remember, always remember… “you’re not doing the driving…” You may appear to be driving, steering, making things go, but in all likelihood, in the end, you’re really just along for the ride.
- If God only Knew
He hit a trifecta one morning, or was he just along for the ride? He would call this a natural trifecta no less… or maybe hat trick. The day started with no diddling nor dawdling, he hopped in his cab and drove straight to the boatyard. Gazing at the few stars able to shine through an all too cloudy, pitched black and almost blue end of the night’s sky; he got his first call, across the river, Zone 22…Two reasons he liked to camp at the boatyard, to gaze at the stars and to catch those long Zone 22 calls.
It was indeed a long call, picking up on the Armed Forces Base and off to the airport; as clear across town as it gets, in this town. He found waiting at the barracks, a nice fella, a bit early morning wobbly, a helicopter pilot. He would be driving this pilot part way to Edmonton, the guy’s home, today. A rambling conversation, quick stop at the Tim’s for a breakfast sandwich, his vitamin G enriched cure for his hangover and a valiant attempt not to talk politics… for some reason. The nice conversation ended in a strong handshake and a thank you for your service. On leaving the airport he followed his gut rules and headed… “back to the middle” … back downtown to Zone 1.
Happily, he failed to make it all the way back into Zone 1 before the next call. On his way through Zone6, he got a call to pick up on Clergy, on Queen’s campus then off to the railway station… A sweet young lady, student, an Art History major on her way to help her boyfriend focus, study for exams in some other college town. He and the sweet young student lady had lovely conversation.
“ were the Group of Seven the first Canadians to paint Canada a Canadian would?
…should a contemporary Canadian artist identify themselves, say in their bio, as Canadian Artist? … maybe only if they’re painting Canada as only a Canadian could, or should?” – “If they weren’t painting anything particularly Canadian, why pigeonhole themselves as merely a Canadian Artist?” – “…you don’t see a lot of Canadian actors who live and work in the US throwing themselves in the ghetto known as Canadian Actors…”
As he bid her goodbye he asked if she had a minor, a backup plan. He shook her hand and told her he had really enjoyed the conversation and joking said he was off to find a fare to the bus station… as this seemed the natural thing for him to do next.
There's really not a lot of choices in where to go when bolting away from the railway station. Ya gotta get out of Zone 11 as quickly as you can. He slipped quickly into Zone 8. Again with no diddling nor dawdling he raced down Sir John’s Boulevard, a left onto Johnson, into Zone 6, heading as quickly as I could to back to the middle again; back to Zone 1. As he rounded St. George's corner, left onto King towards the Market Square he heard a shout… “hey, taxi”!
…it's kind of a surprise for someone to manually flag a cab on the street in Kingston. I stopped short, backed up… In jumped a big fella who said,
“Can you get me to the Bus Station?”
The big fella, a little surprised, maybe taken aback a bit by the almost high five n’ fist pumpin' reaction to his simple request for a lift, from a cab. After telling him what had just happened, that the trifecta was completed, he joined in the celebration best he could. Sharing in our cabbie friend’s trifecta celebration turned out darned nice gesture considering the big fella was just now heading back to Newfoundland after a three days visiting a good friend in the hospital who was almost lost in a head on collision near Brockville earlier this week.
“Any lasting injuries…?”
…perhaps a brain injury, he almost didn’t want to ask him… yup… “Well, the brain does have a way of doing all it can to heal itself, learning to work in different ways my friend… your friend will be OK.”
They talked a bit about driving and how he try to do it safely. Turns out this Newfoundlander was an underwater welder, worked on the rigs. They shared an intensely enjoyable conversation about doing jobs in hostile environments, you know, like driving this cab here on these sleepy streets of Kingston, on the way to the… bus station… trains n’ airplanes... and all three stations... church basement BINGO. The Holy Trinity of consecutive Kingston taxicab destinations?
After a few more fares, when things started to naturally settled down, he found himself idle for a bit up at the Riocan Mall parking lot. He to the time to stretch, out of the cab and lit up a smoke to ponder the odds of the cleverly devised, GPS driven newfangled dispatch system serving him up three straight trips to the airport, bus and train stations… by 7am no less. A good day already, would get even better.
By 11am all the calls had been longer trips, double digit fares with time for good conversations. Indeed, this cleverly devised n’ automated, the GPS driven dispatch system was working well that day. Catching his breath and out for a stretch in the parking lot a way out west, along Gardiner… The Riocan Mall is a vast “big-box” store strip mall that stretches on forever. He felt the urge to give a little bit of thanks, to say a little prayer. As he wasn’t exactly standing anywhere near any of Kingston’s holiest of locations... The Riocan Mall's big-box parking lot would just have to do.
He had never been much of a really religious fellow, but he had been easing up on many of his old conceits lately. Conceits such as, say such as, a tired n’ silly old disbelief in the existence of God... This morning, a good morning for business and a beautiful day, he thought maybe he should give the whole, believing in God business an even bigger shot. As he stood alone, leaning on the opened door of his cab, bathed in and squinting at the day's bright sky, awash in a surprisingly warm December’s lower hung sunshine… He thought to himself, let's push this giving thanks thing as far as he can. Grasping at what littlest bits of learnings, from all these recent reading, talking and thinking and meeting with good fellows these last few years. He almost spontaneously, definitely quite awkwardly blurted out the words “If thy will be done…”Eh hem,
“If thy will be done… let the brain injured friend of the underwater welder be healed up, hopefully making his Newfy buddy very happy”
…if thy will be done, let the Ukrainian bride of the helicopter pilot break free of immigration's red tape and be repatriated with her lover, her new husband here, where Canadians paint Canada as it ought to be painted…
…you know, where it’s just a little bit safer.
“If it be thy will, let our sweet little Miss Art History Major find a career outside of the aisles of Costco or Walmart or… further afield than these vast n’ endless big-box strip mall parking lot stores…” maybe she’ll switch to studying nursing as I jokingly suggested on our way to the train station.
If thy will be done, help the so totally drug addicted woman who bickered with her husband in back of my cab while headed clear across town; find an answer to her drunken mumbled confession, “I hate this life”…
…allow the soon to be a mother-in-law’s overworked and exhausted future son be seizure free for a few days, at least help him keep his driver’s license…
If it be thy will, let the woman who broke out into tears as she got out of the wheelchair and laid her broken leg out in the backseat of my car enjoy Christmas despite having to cancel all her holiday travel plans to northern Winnipeg and… let the anxious car salesman who admitted so shamefully that, for the first time in months, he’d taken his sick stricken wife’s Oxycodone again...
if it be thy will let him not have to have some cabbie like me swing him by the Methadone clinic on his way to work... too many more mornings.
If thy will be done, let his young wife respond to these last few treatments and overcome her cancer and get on with her new career here in Kingston and enjoy raising their daughter… at this point he was quite certain, this was when he was meant to say
Amen... right?
If God only knew, well probably he’d know that he was actually really quite happy with the good folks that got directed towards him and put into his cab by this new-fangled and very clever, GPS driven automated dispatch contraption. God very likely knew how on many days, quite certainly on days when the December sun seems a bit brighter, definitely warmer that he was thankful to be driving this cab. He loved being, just along for the ride with strangers who’d tell him short stories of things that they’re doing or might get up to when they arrive at the places, say the airport, bus or train stations. …then further afield in faraway places he’d take them part of the way to… if thy will be done, let him be healthy and happy enough to keep driving for yet another day and… enjoying every moment with the random peoiple who God puts in his car.
- I Don’t Recall Ever Seeing a Solo Goose… What's he After?
Driving… around in these little limestone circles picking up and yicketty yacking with all sorts of people as cab drivers do. At the risk of sounding like he was once again tooting, dare he say, he did tool about in a spectacular fashion and with a graceful ease around this old little city. Not honking at, but definitely grilling his riders softly, in simple conversations, peppered with questions. Was he like this lone goose? Also looking for, something? Perhaps just another story to hear; a new friendship or something as simple as something different to see. Maybe some sense of belonging? Or it’s easily quite possible, there was just nothing much better to do.
Being… of good service, his motto, may honestly be the only thing he should aim for he thought to himself. Certainly it wasn’t for the measly bits of money, dimes and nickels; nor his new vaunted status, nor even a notoriety he once dreamed he was after. Simply starting each day down by the boatyard, watching his glorious stars change position. Looking up at the moon and noticing a goose, flying solo quite spectacularly low, over his car. A sight that on this colder almost winter like morning really got him thinking; all these things he once got himself up to and into… he started laughing and smiling as he stood watching and listening to this little one goose keep on honking… you know maybe, just maybe the smile and somewhat sharp and pointed chuckle, this laughter was all the silly goose was after… maybe him too, maybe this smile was all he was after.
- Just A Christmas Day Off n' Alone in CAR 29
Was he ready for Christmas? Certainly. For what was maybe only the second time ever, he had absolutely no plans for Christmas; well, no plans other than to go for a drive. He told his owner he’d be happy to drive on the day of Christmas Eve. Weather permitting, he’d drive out to Trenton for a Christmas eve dinner with his family, then head back to drive again on Christmas Day. He was even a little excited to see just what it would be like in Kingston on Christmas day; feel the flow of the City, meet the kind of people who needed of a lift on Christmas Day. Honestly, he was more excited about driving this Christmas than he’d been about Christmas in a very long time.
The last time he had absolutely nothing to do on Christmas was that one miserable year in New York City. Earlier in the year he had split with his Jewish girlfriend. He’d been stuck with her for far too long. Like all recently split up NYC couples, they still lived in the same apartment but. she had gone off to her folks in Long Island to do their traditional Jewish Christmas things, shopping for bargains. On that Christmas Eve he went to a rigorous midnight mass at Smokey Tom's, better known as St. Thomas Episcopalian on 5th Avenue. It’s the other big church in Manhattan, just across the street from Patrick's Place, New York City’s most famous Catholic Church. St Pat’s was always way too busy to get into.
After the service he walked home to Brooklyn over the 59th Street Bridge, after a few 3am beers at some random, still open bar somewhere in the Upper East Side. He woke up Christmas Day a bit hung over and quite early considering. He had a notion to wander around handing out cigarettes to homeless folks. He walked over the Williamsburg Bridge, into the city and have breakfast at some Jewish deli, then walked back over the river and as deep into South Brooklyn as he could manage. He had a Muslim dinner at some Turkish restaurant, took the Subway back into the City, found an open hotel bar then wandered home thinking… what a lovely Christmas alone in New York City it was.
Don’t misinterpret this. He was definitely not one of those folks who couldn’t be bothered about Christmas; always looking for a way out of it. On the contrary seriously enjoyed what some might consider to be the more bothersome Christmas projects. There were always a bunch of songs, some carols he liked to hear at least once and made sure he found a way to hear ‘em. It had been years since he had an extensive Christmas List or too too many shopping obligations, but would usually yank himself into a few stores, see if he might tumble upon something someone might like… For years his shopping M.O. had been to browse with intent to get gifts for one or two people, if something jumps out at me for them, or someone else, well that was the person who’d get the gift that year. He no longer had the need to go out looking to fill a specific list of specific gifts for specific, he simply put himself in a position to let certain gifts find him. So far… no one had been too disappointed with the results of this strategy.
He had no illusions of being totally alone this Christmas. On the contrary, he planned to be a crucial component along the critical path to the success Christmases of quite a few people; as he drove 'em around in his ol’ cab, here in this quaint looking almost Currier and Ives like kinda city. He imagined, maybe one of his fares would invite him in for part of their turkey dinner, maybe offer him a cold turkey on wonder bread sandwich the day after. He’d eventually leave all these admittedly remote possibilities open along with a raft of other ridiculous expectations he dis not have. He figured he may also yet get an invite from some random friend who had an empty Christmas seat to fill. He found himself resisting this, actually more hoping it wouldn’t happen. He kind of hoped he’d get a far flung fare, one that would take him a way out of the city. He’d then spend the rest of Christmas Day simply, coming home... for Christmas.
So, off he went alone, in his cab. No plans no pressures... no commitments nor obligations. A simple day of driving around in limestone circles to see what happens on the streets of Kingston at Christmas.
It was not lost on him that this little guilty pleasure was just a little bit selfish; if it weren't, how could he feel guilty. He’d even admit that it was a well-crafted plan to have no plan at all. In the end, something would happen, there would be a story, maybe even two. He imagined how lovely this guilty pleasure plan of his could unfolds around him… And... …indeed, he did know there’d be a cost. All guilty pleasures come with costs… all tolled? Sometimes the cost of happily being alone on Christmas is… well, this Christmas it was simply quite immeasurable. As always.
- Scottie
That first morning Scottie had shown and told him a few things about driving. It's important to mention, Scottie told all these things in his especially strong Scottish accent. Scottie never judged how he was doing as a cabbie, never suggested what was right or wrong, he mostly just doled out just tips n' tricks that he might find useful. Scottie also shared a few of his own stories. If someone had said Scottie had been driving a taxi around the city of Kingston as long as there had been taxis in Kingston, pretty much forever, except for the strong Scottish accent, which had to come from somewhere, why wouldn’t you have believed him?
Scottie lived in one of those three hellish looking “project” style apartments up in the heights, on Compton no less. The one’s he’d been told are actually quite lovely and whose tenants are really quite friendly; quiet and quite nice to live with. He lived there alone with two, maybe three cats. Scottie admitted once that he was afraid that one day these cats of his might eat him. Apparently, he often forgets to feed them. He told this story while showing the scratches they'd given him the day before. He speculated that he was given these scratches to remind him they’re waiting, watching and ready.... Scottie had reminded him of something… He too fear doing all this driving… alone.
Himself, he no longer kept nor have any interest in cats or any dirty old pets for that matter. He like to keep on the ready. He called it his readiness for action; his emotional ability to stay as long as he wanted, but be able to leave any time he liked. Pets he always though kind of weigh one down; anchor you to a place… more so than kids even.
Each time he drove Scottie to or from work, he’d worry that he was getting a bit too used to being a cabbie, might be enjoying it a little too much. He worried that these early starts and the long hours may eventually exhaust him, force him to withdraw even further into his own little dinggie-dirty apartment. He really had no interest in one day waking up in a dark dank, “project” like apartment complex up on Compton (no less).
So he’d eat as much and as well as he could. He’d mega dose himself with echinacea, drink as much coffee as is possible and only smoke cigarette whenever he could. He thought about starting up swimming again and looked forward to keeping an old promise he made to himself by joining a sailing club and spending a whole summer racing, sailing every evening this coming season. Then again maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to end up like Scottie. After all he seemed happy. But as much as I do love this driving... I really don’t want to be eaten by cats.
- Dear ol’ Dad's, then Mom’s for Christmas Dinner... this Year
She looked to be about 17 months pregnant as she waddled down the steps from her apartment and plopped herself into my cab.. Just as I was kicking myself for not having leapt out to open her door… “What you’ve not finished cooking that turkey? When are you due?” She said she was ready to pop but not for a month or so… no problem, the speed bumps on Queen Mary wouldn’t bother her a bit.
“We're off to Nickel and back?” After having her mother over for Christmas morning, she was off to pick up her son from a night, Christmas morning at his dad’s place. “How many do you have?” She told me the one in the oven would be her second, her girl, her voice, crackeling with smiles. Immediately correcting herself, she reminded us both that she had two sons… the other one spending Christmas at another dad’s place... this year.
We swung around beside a lawn strewn with last year's broken Christmas presents. As she ran across the muddy yard, Jennifer opened the door in her pyjamas to greet her. Dominic, was excitedly pulling on his coat, rushing out the door faster than the coat could follow as they all exchanged hugs, warm friendly smiles …waves goodbye as the two of them skipped back into the cab. “Did you get everything you asked for?” asked his overstuffed n' happily beaming to see him, mama. “I got Halo 3, but I wanted 4… but I got my x-box, it’s almost all set up… there’s a wire that connects it to…” “…so Nana Ann is at our place for lunch, then we’re going to Nana Carols for dinner…” “…are there presents at our place?” yes, and there’d be presents at Carols place too.“...which one’s Nana Carol?” She was the one with Bob, Danny's mom. “Why doesn’t Nana Carol live with grandpa Mike?” “Because they split up like you dad and I did… “Oh and Nana Helen is coming tomorrow, she want’s to take you downtown all by yourself…” “Which one’s he again?” asked Dominic. I could easily understand his confusion, but then immediately imagined the, what must have been six or seven mountains of dollar store gifts this kid would be faced with over the last and next 24 hours or so…
Mom’s place in the morning with Christmas dinner at Dad’s.... shuffling folks from various parents and exes to grandad’s new girlfriend's place then over to either, is it her mom’s or maybe it’s her dad’s or both their turns to host Christmas this year. Then, just as I was kicking myself for dang not again, not leaping to open the door for Dominic’s mother’s I was left thinking of… my son with his mother down in New York, his Aunt, Uncle and cousins over from Rome, with Nonna... me alone in my CAR, driving around Kingston this Christmas… it only my half that's half bad... on the other hand... the tips and the snippets of stories describing which family member's been left where with who were pretty darned good... this year.
Weather or Not
Why bother to get a head start by looking at a weather report? They sky is going to do what it’s going to do, I can’t change it, it’s way way bigger than me. Knowledge of the weather need only be immediate, for the moment… what’s it doing, right now as I turn this corner, search for a street number and start looking for my fare's address. Oh, certainly anticipation and preparation, bracing oneself for what may come next might be worthwhile, but, what's good about certainty and… where’s the fun in that?
I pick up a sense for the impending weather from the folks in my car, “…they say it’s going to be warmer all this week.” “Looks like we’ll finally get some snow tomorrow.” ...listening half heartedly I flick on the windshield wipers when I need them. After all, I work outdoors in a fast moving climate controlled canister, a capsule slowing a bit if the roads get too slick and slippery. I’m rarely more than a half hour from home if my socks get too wet. I may carry a duffle bag one day, a heavy coat, gloves and bigger boots if it ever does begin to pile up. In the meantime, I'll watch out for the weather through my windshield… so totally in awe of it all.
I began to drive at the end of last August's lush summer’s green. Treated to what was quite likely the most glorious fall I’ve yet to see. I watched the old maple at St. George’s corner at Johnson and King turn a certain blood-orange red I’d never expect was even possible. There is a clump of trees along City Park that, as they thinned on rainy days, their black stems seemingly having been drawn quickly, charcoal stick gestures behind yellow, ever brighter, day after day fewer translucent leaves laying against damp darkened limestone grey skies… Kingston is a garden… I’ve rolled down the middle part of Johnson, in the morning as the sun broke open and cast an electric hue over the city, bouncing so brightly off Brock Towers, one couldn’t help singing, something, anything that came to mind while heading further into the older part of town, just passing Barrie. I’ve swung onto Livingston as the sunshine between each leftover leaf. glittering, seemed to match seamlessly with twinkle off each little wavelet out on a light winded lake. I’ve watched this garden blown furiously to the ground, nothing left but old bent spines, almost colorlessly brown and dried out anatomy diagrams, Grey’s nervous and/or cardiovascular systems… barely breathing as we head towards another older man’s winter…
I’m sure a few pals might wonder if this ever gets boring, driving around and around on these same few streets day in day out, hour after hour. Much like any moment I’ve spent over n' over with any really good friend, I’ve never driven down the exact same street twice... I’ve never tired of a moment spent doing the same thing with old friends, who… like the weather, that allows me to decide for myself whether to be bored or not. And like the weather, why sit around and wonder what any of these wondering friends may do next. Oh, certainly it’s good to put on the right boots when off to meet with good friends, but to worry over what might “blow over that day”… I’ve seen glittering smiles, twinkle off the same same cheeks where knotted brows and gloomy thoughts grow then get blown to the ground, swept away by a simple lighter blown breezy n' comfortable conversation… boring? The skies going to do… as my friends might do; it's all much bigger than me and rather than try and get a head start on it all before I head out the door… the weather reports right up in the sky and... oh great, and it’s starting to snow... again.
Not Another Dream Job?
I just found out the Queen's Inn overnight desk clerk is a Jazz man, go figure a drummer. He’s got no gigs on the go, bandless at present but he does have a kit in the basement, a keyboard, a little makeshift recording studio he’s laying down tracks on. He knows Mr. Love and gets into Musiikki, sometimes. I told him how much a friend and I enjoy hearing Trebot and Nubbs… he smiled.
I was surprised to find out that the overnight desk clerk over at the Queen's Inn hadn’t seen Jarmusch’ Night Train… “are you into films?” he asked me. I told him how I’d kinda given up for the most part on movies as even the so-called underground indies seemed all formula these days. All high realistic tales from tiny little towns, made specifically for Sundance. You know well written but tounge-twisted little plots, most with unsatisfying non-endings… I guess there’s no harm in bringing the craft down a notch, I thought immediately as I said this.
He spoke of his music, I spoke of a mission in re-univenting myself, rebuilding unfinished sculpture, pretending as we drove the fast way uptown on my secret little back street, I told him I was taking this route as, first it was faster and skipped all the lights and that it allowed me to send magical vibrations to a loved one whose place we’d drove by. He dug it and asked me what books I’d been reading… “I’ve kind of given up on books too…” I told him how’d I’d run out of time to read any longer as I’ve simply left myself too much to do. He got it but said all the same, you should read Miller… “…really” I said, shaking a bit, “…you’ve just spooked me… man.” As, this was the gist of an earlier vibration.
As I stopped, pulled into his driveway to drop off the over-night desk clerk a way up on Montreal. I mentioned I might pop into say hello one evening if I were walking back from Musiikki and tapped on the taxicab medallion, my licence to drive I have dangling from my dashboard… “ever think of getting one of these, I bet you’d get into it?” He shook his head for a moment as he told me “I’d love to…” but cars petrified me.” He sounded a bit tired but quite happy to be doing the dream job he’d been given. “It’s really just great having a job… man” he told me as he popped outta the cab.
Finally, a Little Fear and Maybe Way Too Much Loathing on the Way, a Way Out to Old Collin’s Bay
Outside of myself, there’s very little to be afraid of here in this little city of Kingston… Ontario. I’m sorry, but at the risk of sounding, maybe a bit slighting, maybe even all high n’ mighty, the very worst neighbourhoods in this limestone wonderland remind me of the better neighbourhoods I used to trudge through to get to far worse places. Those nastily useful places I once felt the burning desire to get to in those a little bigger and then gigantic cities… some time ago. This being said, Kingston’s not without it’s own wretched teams of absolutely creepy n' crazed people. Sadly, crystal has taken her hold over far many more of the denizens here than one would ever want to admit possible in a wee garden-like place such as this.
I got the first sort of frightening dose of good old fashioned fear on Christmas Day morning. Excited as any little boy would be on this glorious of all mornings, I jumped into CAR 29 and bolted straight down to the boatyard. Happily wondering what presents might await me there this morning. Maybe a goose or a low flying duck, maybe one magic little star peaking out from behind this myst. There'd be no stars out on this morning as I stood in the cloud covered darkness, I heard something, what was it? People talking loudly over by the Place Des Armes Condos? A Christmas morning domestic? A little too much eggnog… again, sadly I couldn't get that lucky… The sound was a deranged Bumblebee man coming quite quickly towards me. Strolling alone from the far shore. He was muttering to himself, breathing heavily, sniffling and grunt punching the air as if faced with some imaginary boxing match foe. I kept CAR 29 between myself and this Bumblebee man as he walked by, while I still tugging away on the morning’s wake me up smoke. Bumblebee man caused an uneasy feeling, but mostly I felt unfairly interrupted in this special place I've grown to call, my very own. This special place now being invaded, on this most glorious of all mornings, by some muttering idiot raising inside my still somewhat unawakened mind, just a little twinge of fear.
This particular Bumblebee man was wearing a wholly soaking wet ratty old yellow and black striped parka, unzipped and open. He was wearing no hat against the windy wet weather that had mangled his hair… He could just as easily sweated it wet as by simply being out far too long on a long damp night. Who knows, and who know why I would have to face this F’n mess of a fella on this, my special Christmas morning in CAR 29. Why’d I have to put up with this shit, on this day of all days? All of suddenly like he broke from stride, his mutterings stopping, his air punching trance ending as if he'd just boxed his way out of a corner. He took notice of me and moved towards the CAR... I jumped into it and with an “…I don’t need this shit” momentum and sped out of my boatyard quick, like a jumpy little bunny… thinking well, damn this really dampened what should have been a very jolly good start to my day. As I spun onto Wellington, I got my first call... over to one of the patient visitors “stay over” places, those boarding house like guest homes over behind the Hotel Dieu Hospital on Johnson… I sat out in front, in what was a now dreary rainfall and dreamed of a trip out of town… turned out to be a NOW SHOW… oh, what a glorious way to start this day… this day of all days.
After about a half hour of mindlessly cruising around the pretty old part of this little city; looking at the few pretty twinkling lights folks had left on overnight. I figured Bumblebee man would have wandered off by now. I swung back into the boatyard, straight to what I’ll now call Amen Corner, over by the little tree next to the little bench where, a few nights back, a good pal and I had watch a full moon’s halo make an eyeball of itself in the more brightly lit up early night's sky. I didn’t get the chance to even get out of the CAR, taking the time to do a little reading. I flicked on the overhead lights on, blinding me to the outside; didn’t hear even the slightest of rustling when all of a sudden there was Bumblebee man blurred through the rain smudges of the window, pulling at the passenger side door handle. A click of the locks as I popped CAR 29 into drive, hit the gas and got the hell outta there… just as mad as I was startled... fast as I can.
It wouldn’t be until the sun was quite a bit further up n’ behind the thick cloud bank that greeted Kingston on this Christmas Day morning that I’d bother heading back to my boatyard. A smeared yellowish dot softly lighting up the grey drizzly day as tried once again to stand there, as I do every morning, alone in my thoughts at Amen Corner while having the morning’s most relaxing of smokes. I did notice that Bumblebee Man was still there. He'd made his way all the way out to the end of the jetty, the breakwater. No worries, I figured it would have taken him at least ten minutes to walk in from out there. Then as if properly wound up, like clockwork, damn if he didn’t start coming back towards me… like an overly n' poorly programmed wind-up toy zombie-like android, he had noticed CAR 29 and… he just kept right on coming.
I watched him stutter stumble on back; far too far out there to hear him, I just assumed he was still sniffling and grunting as he air-punched and ducked in and around the boats all nestled on shore, up on their cradles and wrapped up in tarps for winter. I figured I had time enough to finish my smoke; when Bumblebee man went out of sight behind some old work sheds, I stepped back into the CAR and finally headed off for good into what turned out to be a pretty marvellous day shuffling folks from Mom’s Christmas to Dad’s… by the end, I’d pretty much forgotten about Bumblebee man. Was he was having his own special Crystalline Christmas? My guess, who knows, perhaps he'd slipped into the Cataraqui and floated off to greet his own special Jesus on that glorious morning. Nothing about it in the papers but, who reads the papers anymore and with so few of them writing up stories about fucked up stoned losers who fall into rivers.... who'd really care.
The very next morning, Boxing Day as it's known here, before I was even able to get to my boatyard, I got my first call. An up late gang of just past being cute kids, still up and at it this early in the morning on something. A friendly bunch who decided to school me on Ecstasy …apparently they preferred pure MDMA, Molly as they now called it. I don’t know, I guess I must have missed something over the years. Good thing I’ve not been on the market for ages, who knows what I’d have got myself into asking for something not knowing of it’s name change. Bloody marketing guys, they’ll rebrand everything eventually if we don’t watch ‘em too closely.
As I listened to them ramble on about next to nothing, I overheard one of them mention a place called The Trap. Some rotten old flea bitten room in back of the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour in that slightly dilapidated row of old converted into retail row of houses just up from Division on Princess. Just as I dropped off the kids, a bit further up Princess, near Alfred, I got my next call for… the vacant place beside the Tattoo Parlour just up from Division on Princess… My guess at what the place called “The Trap” might have, that place they had mentioned, appeared to be bang on the money. As stepping into my CAR, early Boxing Day morning was none other than a trapped fella I could only describe a way to old to be this so stoned and sketchy, this early in the morning. Quite honestly the scariest, well to be totally honest, the only scary fare I’ve had in my CAR, so far.
Immediately inside Mr. Too Old n’ Sketchy started in with the standard fare nonsensical disjointed babble. I paused the CAR when he told me we’d have to stop at a convenience store as he had no money “…can I put this on my ODSP account?” I radioed his account number in knowing full well I wouldn’t get a confirmation from the confounded dispatcher. I just wanted the way too old, self inflicted scatter brained asshole in my back seat to be reminded that indeed I did have this radio contact. I politely told him we couldn’t use his disability account on account this wasn’t a trip to or from a methadone clinic, “…you know (saying under my breath, you fucking asshole) what this account of yours is assigned to you for.” After a bit of whining he shuffled through a wad of bills he had all along in his pocket and handed me two twenties to hold on to as I drove him all the way out to Collin’s Bay. A twenty or so minute drive I did all I could to cut to 15... or so. There but for the grace… I thought as I raced through the first of a few “...but officer It was yellow” lights…
A few days earlier, I’d picked up a couple of young fellas out there in Old Collin’s Bay. It was nearing the end of a shift when they asked me to whisk them, as fast as I could, all way through to the other end of the city so they could drop off an “expense report” to a welfare worker. One of them had just been paroled, the other, his older brother seemed to be coaching him on the finer points of making sure the money kept rolling in as he rolled out of Quinte, the smaller, local Pen where they park misdemeanor offenders; drunkards, the lit up n' high guys and semi-violent idiots who'd maybe taken a swing at the arresting officers when caught being too drunkenly stupid in public places on those special occasions of their own making. I was obligingly racing along Bath Road, near Queen Mary, towards the welfare office when they had me stop… they’d noticed something and decided they needed to pull into a friend's place… for something… you know, something or another.
I told ‘em they’d need to leave me something of value if they wanted to hold onto the car, have me wait as they visited this friend. I chuckled as the recently released jailbird, the boneheaded younger of brothers handed me his Tim Horton’s stuffed cookie, “…you’ll have to do better than this?” The older brother handed me two twenties as they got out and went on up inside one of Kingston’s joyless looking row-house low income apartments. I waited until it was really too late to make it to the welfare office before wandering up and knocking on the door. I asked the nice young lady who answered if these two young fellas would be re-joining me on this ride? The fare was getting bigger and we really had to go now if they wanted to get to the office to take care of the business of making sure they’d get more money. She went in then came right back to tell me to wait just a few minutes more.
The brothers stumbled back into the CAR well after we’d run out of time to make it to the welfare office. They asked me to take them back home to Collin’s Bay, stopping first to pick up a phone card and to see if a pair of opening night Star Wars tickets might still be handy... and, didn’t that get them excited when they scored themselves seats for tomorrow night’s 4:30 opening day show. In our good mood the three of us helped out some homeless traveler outside the theatre. I gave him the leftovers in an old pack of cheap reservation cigarettes; the older brother gave him a twenty to help him get back to Toronto, for Christmas… They were all giggles as they wore their especially created and branded Star Wars Storm Trooper 3D glasses the rest of the way home. It was dark as I pulled into their poorly lit driveway, almost missing it as I pulled off the Bath Road, which out here is nearly a highway… We’d spent nearly an hour together so almost quite fondly I wished ‘em a gleeful goodnight, wishing them a Happy Christmas, telling ‘em I hope they enjoyed their Star Wars opening moment. Forty dollars or so richer, I logged out and headed CAR 29 in the direction of home.
…now let's get back in the CAR on Boxing Day morning. I was doing my best to keep old Mr. Twitchy, Too Sketchy calm and relaxed. If I’ve learned nothing, I know it takes very little to get a fella in the throes of a vein-banged or smoked up Crystal Meth high hopping, mad or erratic, even just a little plain crazed enough to start flailing, screaming or simply getting too out of control to be riding in the back seat of a cab in the dark on the way out to some unknown address that he promised we’d find along the way; a way out to Old Collin’s Bay. I’ve had far too many of my own conversations with overly-stoned-stupid drug addicts to know enough to keep the conversation from herkily-jerking away from the mission at hand; that of getting this asshole OUT OF MY CAR! I softly kept his babbling-ramblings roiling in a friendly direction; laughing with him at his inane proclamations, sharing best I could in his deranged delusion, always assuring him that he might be making sense, anything, just enough to keep him focussed on giving me directions to exactly where we were going… as quickly and politely as we could. I know enough to know, one wrong flinch and this fella could have easily started digging through his pockets, past the wad of bills he couldn't find earlier. Looking for something sharp n’ pointed... I kept him quiet and we eventually found the place we'd been headed towards.
As soon as he said “…hey turn left, right in here.” it immediately seemed all at once all too familiar. I knew exactly where we were. I told him I’d taken two boys for a ride through town from this exact place just the other day. His mood changed (again) immediately to one of, hey it might have even been joy… “Oh, for Christ sakes…” he chirped, “…so you've met my boys!” I asked him if they had enjoyed Star Wars, he mumbled something as I handed him the change from the two twenties he given me to keep the ride going earlier. Thankfully he simply stumbled out of the CAR as I wished him and his boys another Happy Christmas. As soon as he was clear of the CAR, headed off towards his door, I peeled out of his driveway and went straight to the Tim Horton’s just down the road… it wasn’t open, but I wanted to stop, decompress rest my mind for a bit, digest the moment and think about, what was it I was feeling? Was it old fashioned fear, or was I simply loathing… all these so totally lost in nasty drugged losers.
I asked myself... just what would I miss If I were to lose my life behind the wheel of this CAR 29? A crash, a wrecked misadventure or an inadvertent unprovoked slash of a pointy thingy poke from some meth head I'd pick up along my way. Not much I supose, the tip, the next fare the next nice conversation... so losing my life, is this what I fear? Or do I fear more my own growing loathing of what’s being stolen by these characters I’ve just met… Do I fear seeing another family of nutbars, two too boyishly young jailbirds destroyed by watching daddy stumbling home stoned out his mind after Christmas, out of his mind on the worst drug anyone could ever imagine? Do I fear my morning’s serenity being shattered by a wretched Bumblebee man who can’t leave me alone in my own place on a very special morning, that place I go each and almost every single morning and on those special full mooned eyeball evenings with a very special friend? Perhaps I fear most for the future these morons will leave for my son.
Honestly though, it’s really just Kingston and I truly don’t really don’t fear any of this all that much… And who wouldn’t loath having their garden-like little city being sullied by this kind of annoyance? Putting up with these far too strung-out and flung-out from the normal, totally lost people, wretchedly wandering around without any real purpose? Who doesn’t get tired of all those who say we can and should save ‘em then start by doing absolutely nothing about it all by themselves… I guess it’s my anger at this that has me fearing my thinking on this the most as… all I can do really is to get ‘em where they’re going while hoping they don’t get the notion to poke a hole in me and my imaginary impression that this place is any different than the other places I’ve been to… worse places that, if you can imagine, I can so easily recall and call all my own.
There It Is
There it is. After driving around these past few months, inside a subtle growing dread. A dreadful nagging worry carried more heavily, along for the ride over these past few glorious surprisingly warmer December weeks. It fell, or rather, was plopped down on top of us one evening. Not the virtuous softly swirling in the crisp clear vividly blue early morning daylight kind I’ve been extolling over with my passengers… Not the kind I’ve grown to enjoy these past two years simply by having purchased, finally, A pair of Sorels, a proper pair of boots and some long-john underpants for the first time in 35 years… These past few years, I’ve actually found myself going out in it, on purpose.
It drippled down for almost an entire day from low hung thick, dark and dreary clouds. Wet, as it immediately rained upon itself… It came looking almost pre-stained with the salt and sand we throw at it. So quickly becoming the “city snow” I’ve so despised all these years. A mucky annoyance, a bother, a bloody waste of windshield washer.
The first thing I did, the first day I drove a taxi in the snow here in Kingston? I headed to the boatyard. The wide open pre-dawn empty parking lot what better place to test the brakes on CAR 29. Getting the feel of her as we stopped short, engaged the anti-lock system. A bit of a boy came out in me as I spun a few doughnuts, accelerated a decelerated getting a feel for how the old girl might fishtail if I were to accidentally overly high tailed it to pick up the next fair. She felt good in the snow. Afterwards, standing at Amen Corner, the clouds began to softly illuminate the now surprisingly frozen Cataraqui, I began to feel less dreadful, even a little calmer.
Enough of the stuff fell, plopped to get a feel for how tight the city will become. If my experience here over these last two years holds true, there’ll be seemingly never ending growing piles of it over the next three month, plus whatever remaining agony the bitch and her buddy, old man winter decides to tack on after the end of March. Piles that’ll cut the lanes by a quarter; piles I’ll not be able to see up n' over or around as I pull around certain corners or back out of tight driveways… how much will I have to rely on the other drivers, will they look out for me, coming out?
Today, the sun broke through the still drizzling clouds for about a moment. That moment, I sped down Bath towards the prison. There was a myst over the iced over wetlands, the gap in the city at the foot of Armstrong. There’s a wide open field dotted with trees that separates the inmates from the rest of the citizens. Far enough in from the roadway was a fresher looking blanket, still white, untrampled and coated with a sheen of ice from the rain that's been off n on falling. I pointed and said to my fare “hey, that’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?”
As the roads began to dry out, I took CAR 29 in for a wash at the very end of my shift. I stood beside her in the again darkening grey clouded sunset, thinking how tomorrow will be another day in the snow. Another day in a string that will most likely stretch for a while, the first day of the next year. CAR 29 and I will greet this day fresh, clean and gleaming… I’ll make sure to get the opportunity to drive by the patch out by by the prisoners… Driving a taxi cab in the snow? I won’t be as easy, but I'm pretty certain, at any given moment, it will be very very pretty.
JackpotThe cab company I work for has done a very nice job of securing accounts, businesses offer their customers rides too and from their offices, service centres; schools shuttling around certain kids with special needs; retirement homes and various medical facilities that offer transportation, either themselves or through government programs. One government program we get a lot of is the Ontario Disability Support Program’s service of shuttling whacky "recovering" drug addicts to and from the methadone clinic. I sometimes wonder how many of the people I pick up from the condos on Ontario Street or from the Earl's bottom know just how many people in Kingston have disabled themselves with drugs that require they get their daily dose, the cuppa, a swig of juice. Me? I wasn’t too surprised, I was a bit surprised to find that I'd one day benefit, perhaps not as greatly as some, but quite tidily from our drug addiction industry, at least on the days I was lucky enough to get the call… Compton to Hickson, Patrick to Wellington and what not.
One of these addictive customers is particularly lucrative. He’s a fella up in The Heights who for whatever reason of his own making has been barred from the Methadone clinic closest to where he lives. He requires shuttling clear across town, three exits along the 401… Twenty sum odd dollars goin’, twenty some odd coming back. Not so oddly enough, this represents a nice bump on one’s daily sheet, the take, what we measure our days by. Not odd at all is that the ol’ Meth Head’s come to be known as the Jackpot.
Brian’s fine with this. He takes a takes a taxi often enough, that being every day he remembers he needs his juice. Often enough to know a lot, if not all us day drivers. I’m sure there are those he’d rather not have call him the Jackpot, those drivers so fearful or perhaps those who so despise this program. Me? I think Brian gets a bit of a laugh, a break from his agonizing anxiety when I roll up, he jumps in and I say, “good morning...
JACKPOT!”
I think Brian and I share a bit of a self effacing humor over our predicaments; I think Brian gets along with me as we kind of do speak a similar language.
I hadn’t had Brian for a few weeks longer than I would have expected. Long enough that I had started asking other drivers whether they’d had him in their car recently. I wouldn’t say I worry, but after even a couple of trips with the same folks a few times... OK I do start to worry a bit about my favourite little drug addicts. My favourite? It’s not Brian, I’ll likely get around to telling’ a story about her, some day. Let’s just say, it was a nice relief to see Brian today. I mean after all, who’d want the opportunity for a Jackpot to dry up?
Perhaps it was on account it being the first day of the year, but Brian was especially reflective today, “…I have to make some changes”. Indeed… “You certainly do Brian.” Maybe it was the fact that he had a disgustingly pusy, agonizingly sore and growing abscess on his arm where he'd poked himself over and over again with a makeshift syringe fashioned from a broken then sharpened Bic pen; you know, to ease his pain and suffering. Maybe it was just, as he said, after a while ya just do so much Meth you get absolutely sick… Who knows, maybe that pusy abscess and today's sick feelings will save Brian… one day.
These trips with Brian have started to follow a clear bit of of programming, a familiar script. On the trips out we tend to talk of old glory n’ gory days. Stories told boldly, to get a chuckle out of “…oh the troubles we’ve seen”, got up to, created and waded through; the trips back, I guess we’re meant to discuss the results. Today it was the messes we’ve made with, my kid, his kids, his grandkids, our families. Tis the season after all. I asked Brian of the state of his relationship with his kids, as of say, today. Not good. They keep trying and he keeps failing, often appearing to them as a still flailing just banged-up the minute before they arrive incoherently babbling dick-head. Daddy’s at it again, won’t ever stop, he mustn't love us, why bother… we don’t need this shit any longer. I reminded Brian, he’s got a monkey on his back that’s strong than life itself, that he’d happily go as far as kill himself to get smacked up, so, fucking up his relationship with his kids… ain’t nothing. It was a good trip.
As we got close to the turnoff to his place Brain raised a particularly sticky problem he’d been having, guilt. It’s quite often that drug addicts do have one of those “duh moments”. He whined on about how he’s trapped in the typical circle… banging to relieve his guilt, guilty over having banged. He asked me, “…what do you do? How’d you get over the guilt? What can I do…?” I scratched my head over this one and said the only honest answer I could come up with… “Brian, I haven’t gotten over the guilt, and haven’t a fucking clue how one could…”
I dropped off a good kid at one of the big building block apartments over on Leroy Grant. He was getting off an early shift from an OK job he’d just done well, he thought, on little over an hour’s sleep, you know Happy New Year. At the door was an anxious mom and her little girl, sniffling in tears, Cassy. They’d called another cab company, I told ‘em to hop on in, I’d take them to… Kingston General. “What’s your name?” Cassy… “…does someone have a little pain?” Distracted, her mom explained that Cassy was just finishing up another round of Kemo. She’d done great and was in remission, but had a fever which required yet another, after so many other visits to the hospital. I wasn’t sure if Cassy was hurting or sad that this visit had interrupted a visit she was having with a buddy upstairs… “...maybe we’ll go to Sharon’s place after the hospital…”
“What you get for Christmas Cassy?” I promised her I’d channel all my powerful New York City drivin’ skilz to get her to the doctor's quick as a bunny, a crazed bunny... then proceed, like the dork I am, we proceeded to hit every damned red light. “I got an underwater camera.” “Have you tested it in the bathtub by taking a picture of your toes?” …got a little chuckle, tossed at me from behind; a nice feeling chuckle from a scared little girl in my backseat who… is being put through just too damned much than …a little girl might like. Cassy wished me a little whispered Happy New Year as her mother paid the fare and herded her wee little thing in a familiar fashion, out of CAR 29 and into the Emergency Room Entrance... again.
Brian and I sat in the cab while I waited for my next fare. He was thinking that maybe moving from an apartment where six of the thirteen tenants are users might be a good idea for the new year. He told me how happy he was that just last night he’d turned down his girl friends offer to smoke a rock ‘cause he just needed to do some healing, needed to find out if he was really sick, or just “hung over” from banging day after day after day… I finally gave Brian a non-answer, “…you know Brian, you’re not ever going to get over that guilt. That monkey is never going to stop crawlin’ and clawing all over you.” At the risk of skirting along side some kind of, or gettin' all up n' religious, I suggested, maybe you're going to have to find a bigger monkey, one that can maim it, or maybe tame it, train it to do something more useful than handing him the sharpened Bic pen again. Maybe ya just gotta suck it the fuck up Brian. Or, maybe you’ll hit your own damned Jackpot one day… I mean, who knows… I just did... twice.
The Pelt Market is Down, Again
With a nod to all these fresh young kids in all these grand old halls n’ residents… I found myself in dire need of a new schtick, a new ice-breaking conversation starter to get things going with the Queen's kids the other day. My conversations with the little ones was getting kinda stale, especially the really young n' fresh ones. Those feisty first years, minds all full of not much more than enthusiastic mush. I mean how many times can one lean into ‘em with the “…where ya from?” “…how do you like Kingston?” Only to find yet another little still wet behind the ears n' wild one from out yonder upon the windswept plains of the Toronto hinterlands, all those Richmond Hillites, Vaughntoninans and Oakvillians . AND, of course they adore Kingston, I mean, really, why wouldn’t they, it is made of stone after all.
Out of the blue, I begun to tell a tallish tale of how us taxi-cabbiests were actually doing a double duty of a sort. In reality, we were firstly and fore-mostly, simply, just pelt collectors. Fishing our fares for the freshest student… pelts. The ever-freshest being the coveted first year pelt. I mean sure, one could argue, and perhaps it is just a little correlative, but “…have you ever wondered why there are so few of you left after April, so fewer of you returning for that second year?” Indeed, last year was a good year for pelts.
This year? The pelt market is down a bit. We’re not getting that good a dollar for your pelts these days. Some say it's UBER; the older, aging, crinkly n’ wiser drivers, well they put it down to Pierre and Claude laying out far too many trap lines out front of Victoria Hall and along down Albert and Collingwood Streets. Others say, well it just hasn’t been cold n’ wintery enough… yet. You know… the best way to prepare a fresh pelt is to stick it in a snowbank let it get all chill overnight, alive n’ wiggling n' wriggling, letting it turn all blueshly purple, you know, for the Engineer’s market. Those engineers, they do so love the leathery old Queen’s jacket!
The last couple of fresh n’ first yearlings I had in the cab were, well he was all nervously chuckling a bit in the back (little did he know), she was a little non-plussed but I could tell she was giving it some thought as I pulled my now patented stunt of driving right up and onto the the sidewalk of Stirling Hall, the Science Building, to get my fares as close to that door as possible, I will get caught one day… I assured her that she was safe for now. I mean with the pelt market being down as it is. Most of us cabbies, er fare-trade collectors were simply practicing a catch and release modus operandi, "... we're keeping up our skills“…you’ve nothing to worry about sweetie.” I mean, unless it gets much colder. Oh and by the way girls, no I’m not a dirty old man behind the wheel of this large automobile… I’m just eying up that pelt of yours, baby does needs new shoes after all… dontcha know.
It Seamed a Clear Victory for Chivalry Along Victoria One Sunday Morning
The building that burned down while under construction the day after I arrived in Kingston a few years ago has now been re-built and is open for business. It’s huge, an almost New York style apartment block of a building, built specifically to house hundreds of students. It’s just a little outside what many folks here call the ghetto seeing how it’s all the way over at Victoria and Princess, 663 Princess no less. Now, one need only ponder a little bit longer on that street number to realize just what it’s tenants have a view of… across the street. Of course, one might say, it’s actually the old horn rimmed fella himself who gets the advantage of, you know, watching over his flock; I mean if you were to give the street number a bit of an extra ponder.
Calls to 66… 3 are more often than not quite annoying. There’s little room to park n’ wait out front and, we’ve been specifically told, scolded about blocking traffic at this location which, is kind of a chuckle considering how these kids, the entitled ones, The Queen’s own brats do like to keep us inconsiderately, waiting. But waiting is not what this is really all about, nor inconsideration even. Really, quite honestly, perhaps even a little honourably, it’s about a kid, a couple of kids really who like a lot of kids on Sunday morning, really weren’t a couple at all.
I hadn’t noticed as I pulled up to 66… 3 that the destination was an address close by, just over on Earl. This would have me going down on Victoria, just a few blocks into the heart of the aforementioned student ghetto, or the Village if you’d like to be a little more poetic about, the gooey mess this neighbourhood can get to be. Thankfully this couple, a nice looking gal and a confident looking fella didn’t keep me waiting, jumping into my CAR all dressed up for a night of night clubbing in the Hub. Oh, I did mention, it was about 7am on a Sunday morning, indeed… leftovers.
My first thought, well isn’t this kinda nice, this fella ensuring the gal he’d snagged the night before didn’t have to do, what I still refuse to call “the walk of shame” all on her lonesome… especially not in those shoes, in the new fallen snow that had quickly turned to slush after yet another one of these mini-minorly furious flurries we’ve enjoyed so far, most of this winter. A nice enough fella making sure his, eh hem date made it these very few blocks home safely, at least without ruining her quite lovely high heeled shoes… And, for me… hooray, another under five dollar fare! My role in this most instant of adventures would be to drive ‘em to the point were little Mr. Good Dude could flash his daddy-backed plastic and waste even more of my precious time as I ran the under five buck fare… on a card… and did whole extra two whole more strokes of a pen pushing paperwork, sigh.
When we got to Earl, I pulled way up and over a smallish snowbank to ensure the dryness of our little Miss, now noticeably quite wobbly little Princess. Aiding in her shoes not getting all wet n’ ruined (is it just me who has a thing about nice shoes?) I stopped the meter as they jumped out “…keep it running” barked the good dude, hmmm… OK. I could only wonder why? Maybe they were just picking up another, perhaps I was to drive the magic “we ain’t takin’ no perp walks today” bus… on this… a slushy, snow day (all the kiddies cry, hooray)… maybe not.
After a few extra long minutes of what I thought may have been their canoodling at the door, I couldn’t really see ‘em, he jumped back into the Cab. “…you can take me back to Princess” he said, with not as much as a grin as I would have expected. I could only ask what I usually ask my Sunday morning leftovers at 7am… “…the end of a glorious evening?” or, “...the start of a beautiful day?”…”Neither” said this, it was soon to be discovered, fine young fella.
He told me how he’d, in his own way had rescued this young lady when they had become separated from her friend, who’d run off into the crowd at the Hub with yet another, quite likely less wonderfully nice young fella she'd found on her own. How he couldn’t get an address out of her last night so he had hauled her on homeward, to 66... 3. How he’d drop-plopped her into his bed, even though these days that’s a risk all on it’s own. How he’d spent the rest of the night finishing off some homework and a pizza, watching some television. “…well that’s quite honourable”, I mentioned. As the conversation continued, he did agree that his generation, these young guys n’ gals, friends of his do tend towards fucking first, asking questions and cleaning up the messes later, but that… He’d been raised by a grandma who’d smack him upside the head if he didn’t hold the door open for her… I immediately began to wonder, I bet his grandma is as old as me, and… I wonder if she’s, you know… hot… or not... eh hem… back in the CAR.
I kind of ignored this nice fella as he softened his own story, back peddled his own particular brand of man like mettle by oh so boldly claiming that “meh, they come n’ go…” that he didn’t really need the hassles that come with bedding one of the millions of drunken Princesses he’s faced with… offered up daily, or at least nightly at the clubs in the Hub. I ignored this as, you know his kind gesture had not only more than doubled what would have been a pretty measly little fare, it reminded me… the chitter chattering jokes these other cabbies belly laugh over, the stories the night drivers tell of loose girls and loud mouthed little boys aren’t always entirely fair. I’ve mentioned before how much I despise it being called “the Sunday morning walk of shame”, how I prefer “the dreamy walk of infinitely lovely n’ wonderful possibilities”… and after dropping off this one good ol’ boy it nicely striked me; despite this culture of getting what we want as quickly as we can get it, perhaps it is possible, and wonderfully so, that chivalry, at least a mild form of it, isn’t quite as dead, at least not totally in this quite wonderful n’ lovely little Limestone City… on this Sunday morning.
My Mama Done Told Me… (revisited)
There’s something I find a little bit romantic about junk yards, wrecking yards… There’s auto repair shop up near the barren top of Bagot that has that “yard” feel for some reason, at home in. It’s all walled in on two side, double high fences on another others, a great big rolling fenced entrance with a few scraggly trees, one of them a big willow drooping over the old cars laying around the yard in various states of repair; the shop itself, a cement brick wall with a huge rolling shop door forms the end of this gloriously shabby courtyard I’ve just pulled the CAR into… there’s a shed like building, an office with a set of old wooden stairs leading up to a rooftop deck which… I know now is the apartment I’d like to live in one day. Sigh, yet another lottery fantasy.
A mangy cat wanders down the old wooden stairs in advance of three woman, the younger looking one struggling with a huge suitcase and a baby basket, the oldest woman, a bit underdressed in her flowery terry housecoat is tugging on a butt as she gives the younger one a hug goodbye.
“Can I put that in the trunk for you?” I say with a smile, pointing at the baby basket. The patented ice-breaker I use with young mothers… She smiles as I grab her overweight suitcase and chuck it in the trunk while she buckles baby in back and we’re off to the bus station. It would appear today, I’m driving her part way along her freshly baked son’s “introductory tour” across Southern Ontario, Aunts, cousin’s, half brothers n’ step sisters… we talk a bit about, the boy’s name, Elijah, Arthur, “strong names”, and… you know circumstances… Somewhere along the conversation I mutter “…ya know, my mom always told me, if life keeps serving up curve balls the best thing to do is keep swing the bat.”
“…mine said that too.” I was told from the backseat. “Really?”… “Really.”
I found this kind of odd as I’d honestly thought I’d just made this one up on the spot, out the blue. She told me how her mother had played baseball very competitively and was always passing along these baseball related sayings. I admitted to her that my mom never actually told me this, but rather always warned me to “…never fart in the elevator.” Chuckling a bit the new mama in back told me how she always blamed the person next to her when she had, you know an accidental release. I’d already told her I had a young son of my own and told her “…hey, you know, now that you have a kid, you can always blame all your farts and bad smells a weird noises on him.” I explained how all it really took was to flick of one’s glance in the direction of the littler one and all suspicions simply evaporate in an air of good natured, go figure… She thought about this for a while…
As we darted across John Counter and pulled into the Bus Station parking lot… I felt the need to give this nice young lady little something else to think about, something a little nicer perhaps. I thought I’d mention to her that, despite the circumstances, just how blessed she was to have had a boy. “From this point on you’ll have a fella in your life who will love you, adore you, defend and do anything he can for you, for ever… despite your having blamed him for all your farting…” in the elevator or anywhere else for that matter. I couldn’t stress enough how much the little boys I know love their mother and this left me wondering… I wonder what Elijah might say his mama done told him… “don’t pay too much attention to cab drivers.”… perhaps… and my boy’s mama… the same maybe?
PART THREE
SUGAR FREE
- Levitation
…he can picture himself crawling down a dimly lit stairwell in the West Village, its 1962. A room full of pre-historic, all hip n’ dreadfully too cool college kids all dressed in black, maybe a few cardigans a couple of tweed jackets with patched elbows. The din of chitter chatter, an almost gossip like contiguous but overlapping conversation on Jung, Goldberg and the last Lenny Bruce show. The aroma of darkness, the richest of imported Italian pressed-espressos pitched in a mid-aired collision; an ancient biplane like dog-fight, a battle to overcome the stinging stench n’ thick blue haze of those chain smoked Gallous. Cigarette and coffee, an oh dear old moment’s sigh for those, were they really, the good ol’ days?…
A tiny young thing takes her place on the small stage that’s been tucked into the corner, barely elevated, she steps to the mic…
“I love my friends. No weirdness is the only base. Jeeze, I count on those little bastards always.”
…a pause, calm quiet, then a casual applause as lil’ Ms. Lady Sarah explains… her xxx’s and those ooo’s… dear.
He’s too often told himself that he really shouldn’t read emails when he get up in the middle of the night to take another bite from the triple chocolate muffin he leaves propped on his bedside table when earlier he’d run quietly away from his lonesome… a bite of dark chocolate, maybe downstairs for a un-tensing, one-third awake tug on a smoke… those last few too tightly held onto vices that will surely kill him just as, if not more quickly-er than all those long left behind…
He levitates… floats just up the hill and drifts ‘round yet another sharp corner; first street to the left… quite a bit further left from what he’d call his center.
…just over there, he watches from above as she stands in his bedroom doorway. He sorts through an old junk drawer to show her his medals of valor that he’d won in that war. Tossed casually, quietly, possibly a little bit bashfully, a self-demanded attempt at diminishing, not being, but ever yet a little vain gloriously onto his own nondescript bedside table, that matches the rest of his decor. Is it maybe the Bronze Star, or Silver… He shows her his deep loving red Purple Heart as her own heart skips that beat she’s no longer lost looking for… she’s happy, and he knows it… and how easily convinced they’ve become, that he’s happy too.
As he descends back into surprising comfort of his lumpen bed, now merely some left behind converted and poorly designed futon sofa, sheets covered in crumbs and stained with those bits of dropped chocolate; he’s reminded. One’s given very few chances to experience the gloriousness of this level of insane. Like he did maybe a little bit later than, most leave it behind earlier in life when they feel the need to get on with it… To rediscover it now, what, a blessing? Most certainly he’s left with two un-choices…
…after too many years spent, definitely not deliberately, but dithering, perhaps a little more wisdom, but more likely just a well-worn out but extremely useful ennui, after this night’s flight of fancy, simply… he’ll make neither of those two choices… if only to see in which direction these non-decisions will take him. To experience this floating another chance to keep flying, at this age… a blessing… once more.
- Let Me Ask a Question... Does This Day Really Mean Anything to You?
It's not that my bag was empty, my bag wasn’t empty at all. I seem to remember this dread more a result of my bag being full of half-baked three line poems, forced truths, and for the most part meaningless little messages from the friends from which I always wanted more. I suppose our only being 7 or 8 years old at the time my have played into this disappointment, but...
I dreaded the day that our parents and teachers forced us to punch out thirty or so odd, perforated, cartoon hearts and decorate them with Valentine’s sayings and slogan, most of which meant nothing to us. Our teachers when then ask us to write some drivel that added nothing to the pre-printed drivel already printed on the cartoon side of the punched out card.
We’d fold them, seal them and stuff them into each of our classmates decorated paper bags on the front of each of the other desks in our grades one, two, three, four and five classrooms desk. Bobby asked Janie to be his valentine because she was nice or pretty, Janie said Bobby was cute, Susan never once said what I wanted to hear... I mean c'mon man! Susan, knew me more than all my other friends, she was my best pal, my girlfriend, the cutie beauty little patootie that I was going to marry when I was 17. When I mean, all grown up. Nope, all I ever got from Susan was a pre-perforated, punched out card, just another piece of cheap cardboard tossed into a paper bag… and, we never did get married.
About ten years ago. I brought my wife to a specially advertised couples’ dinner at my local pub. The food there was quite good, and well hey, a prix fix load of grub, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers might just be "what the doctor" had ordered up as a cure to a relationship that was floundering on the sea of boredom. We enjoyed a nice dinner, we had a nice chat, the first in quite some time. When we got home later that evening, she admitted to me that for the last three or four months she had been having an "affair" with a mutual friend. Although this "affair" was not the sole cause for separation, the fact that she could even could have had an "affair" disturbed her to the point that she realized enough was enough and that it was time to end this now not passionate enough marriage we had going.
Fucking stupid bitch! As much as she was the love of my life; I’d even go as far as to call her my soul mate, one of the very few persons that I think I was ever or would ever be as absolutely connected to... I will always hate her for coming to this ridiculous conclusion. Coming to this conclusion on this of all days. I mean it wasn’t like I had insulted her with a new set of stake knives, or tickets to the "ball game" like I had gotten her on previous Valentine’s Days. She came to this dreadful conclusion on a night that I had truly thought I was putting a little extra something into that red-construction-paper-heart decorated bag of hers.
Does this day mean anything? Well I guess maybe it does after all. While half a bunch of nimrods are walking here and there, dressed in pink shirts and skimpy underwear... while the asshole marketers [myself included], are trying to suck a few extra bucks out of heart strung morons whose greatest love adventure was picked out of a plastic bag they found buried at the bottom of a Lucky Charms cereal box... Today, this day, for me... this day will always means the absolute END of love. And I think that that is absolutely absurdly and gloriously fucking perfect.
- A Cartoon Version Of Yourself
- Wait, Simply
You have been unaware that you are the benefactor of better decisions and of good, no great marksmanship? Hmmm, well, ok... here’s a tip for you. This is how I sleep, no get a great each night. As I read through the various historical accounts of the rise and fall of various civilizations, I can’t help but notice that even with a good number of major setbacks, mankind has been generally getting less and less brutal through the ages. There’s a reason we’re at eight billion and heading for more.
Simply
I do not judge the horrors of recent history against today’s morality, rather, I feel they are to judged against the morality of the times that directly preceded them. And, obviously, in so doing, I am commiting my voice, thoughts, instructions and ultimately my actions, doing the most, which is probably not that much, to ensure that future generations, our children and grandchildren’s generations do not judge our times too harshly.
To the bold men of the past. The men who chewed there way through the ravages of the histories prior to their own times. To the fierce fighters who righted what they perceived to be wrongs, who slayed those in the way of their virtuous pursuits, pursuits that ultimately cut a path directly to me and mine. To my glorious forefathers who, in my humble opinion got more right than wrong. I’ve nothing but thanks. Thank you for creating the perch upon with me and my generation has stood and, hopefully as nobly used as footing to foist our progeny up and upon what is simply… the next perch.
- Hate Crime
Those “in charge” want nothing more than to run around thinking everyone is racist while “we” are not. They want us to perceive our own virtue while missing it completely in others, “the other”. You are not racist. I am not a racist, nor are the vast majority of our fellow citizens racist in any fashion what-so-ever. The true racists are the power hungry, those who paint each and every one in such a way as to reflect their insidious garbage towards one another. The truly hateful are those who pit each of us against one another.
- University Professors
I roundly refuse to accept the accusation racist when flung so carelessly against me and my friends. Cowering towards and piling on these insults, this hatred is not a sign of virtue, it’s an indication of your submission. It’s a capitulation to those who’s only desire is for power. Power derived from evoking a superiority, or power of those who falsely believe they are due sympathy. Sympathy they feel deserved simply due to what’s really only the perception that they sit “below” those they’ve cartoonishly painted to as being held in undeserved positions of authority. I would hope someday there’ll be brighter minds and purer hearts at these institutions. That someday these better souls will censure this foolishness in some fashion. Sadly, I can’t see these places surviving this assault. That’ll they’ll need to be burned down before we can ever build them back… better than we have let them become.
- Overton Window Washer
- Can I Practice an Argument Here?
Hey Doc. My son’s girlfriend may one day, god forbid walk into your clinic and ask for you to abort their child, alone. It’s her right and, it is after all, just a simple medical procedure, right? In ten states and twenty-nine countries, including this one, I can consult with my doctor and be prescribed, suicide. I can ask, you my doctor, for a prescription for death.
For years now, if I so requested, it’s been OK’d for me to request that I drift off into that long good night, stoned out of my fucking mind; but if I dared to have simply mentioned, requested that we tried hydroxychloroquine, even as a faint hopeful request to cure me of the dreaded Corona, this was tantamount to an act of treason? Even though the drug had been prescribed as a prophylactic against malaria since 1946; even though it was approved for use for lupus as some arthritis?
...even though hydroxychloroquine was approved by the US Food and Drug Administration for emergency use for COVID-19 you were never going to let us consider it because...
How much were you being paid??
- Law and Ethics
My guess, without any of us even truly knowing the denominator nor the numerator; each and every one of us will be absolutely certain they know exactly what just happened. We will each of be convinced we know how bad it was, we’ll have theories ensuring ourselves there was someone to blame and we will all know exactly who that is. With respect to the latter, how many of us already have made up their minds?
Most of us will never divest from their current opinion, their initial conclusions. Even if/when new information arrives, we will ignore it; we will have moved on to different issues. It’s simple really, this is not our seeking the truth, ths is our picking a side, for the moment, during the time when it’s vital to be on one team or another. Once that moment passes, any change of heart or mind becomes irrelevant. Seeking the truth is no longer the nor maybe was the primary human motivation. Fitting in with the in group is our survival and… it will likely be the death of us all.
- Time Machine Hitler Killers
You didn’t have a time machine to go back and kill Hitler and he apparently killed millions. A time machine you with an opportunity to take out Trump and he didn’t.
- Another Censorship Question
Two big tips for you, first: Certainty is a hoax. Anyone claiming certainty is lying to you. Listen for the man who begins his tale with, this is the way I see it now. The second, wait for it. Let the lie run circles around the earth. Let it shine in it’s momentary glory. The faster it strides, the more assuredly it flies the more likely it is to dissolve upon it’s final arrival… as a bonus… cui bono and question everything (again and again),
SUGAR FREE [PART ONE]
While on my now twice weekly winter wander through the woods and in and about town I came to an overwhelming realization, I’m no longer participating in any of this, really. The feeling has been coming on for years. I have been noticing it subtly, vaguely even, at first believing it to be age related. I mean old men don’t buy a lot of shit, don’t do a lot of things. They stop caring that much about or attending sports events, movies, concerts or plays. I really don’t buy clothes except to replace worn out socks and underwear with the same brand or whatever brand is in reach. All my other clothes are usually bought second hand, on a useful whim. As for brick-a-brac and the useless shit that seems to be piled withing store front after store front, sometimes I cannot even recognize any of it as anything that even appears to be real… what the fuck is all this shit even for? – Decorations, curiosities… is it all just decoration, adornments?
He slides his cock into the yawning and sloppily lubricated hole that is his transexual girlfriend’s ass. Pumps furiously in what appears to be a wonderful moment of passion but could easily just be another part of the routine. Once again, he cums too quickly. He collapses on top of her and caresses her swollen, but not hard enough penis. He’ll be required to finish her shortly but for now the quiet phase, the heavy panting slows… the mind fog; what is he even doing, why has he found himself in a potentially polyamorous relationship with a man who is convinced he is a woman? Why now, at this late stage in life? Maybe there truly isn’t… really isn’t a valid answer nor anything left worth questioning at all.
Upon discovering this ennui was less than vague aberration that rippled into his “way” from time to time, when he finally realized it was becoming more the norm, his norm. It dawned on him. Although age was definitely in the mix, perhaps the medium that carried this feeling of no longer being involved, in any of this, the catalyst and the actual cause may be the significant changes he had purposefully made through these past, almost two decades now. Talk about your AA induced spiritual awakening, try stopping it all for years on end. Agreeing that it wasn’t the all of it, he knew now that quitting using the cornucopia of recreational drugs, alcohol, tobacco and now all added and refined sugar and chemical additives was “the most of it”. His diet had become biblical, his last attachment to the “consumer world”, buying groceries, was now more a simplified routine of foraging through the junk-piles of boxed bleached-grain garbage and bagged sugary shit that passes for food these days. His trips to the big-box grocery stores included stops bat the fruit and vegetable bins, and the meat fridges; he’d pick up eggs, on occasion yogurt and off he’d go. He stopped even bothering wandering up and down the aisles to ensure he wasn’t missing things. What little salts n’ spices he continued to use he’d purchase on other walks with stops at the Bulk Barn, one of those places with bins and bags of nuts, flours and grains… he’d skip completely the bins full of chocolates and candy; just how many forms does this refined crystal have to be blended into before your realise its all just “sweet”… and dollar for dollar, taste to taste, a bag of frozen blueberries is just a yummy, if not more so. Indeed, time had brought him down this path, but abandoning the worst of what “manufacturing” had to offer, in the way of “things to be consumed” had left him here. No longer needing nor wanting to take part in any of this and, not missing it any bit at all…
- With Regards to Homeless Camps
Have you ever tried to then rank them, these things you believe to be your rights? Have you tried jotting them down, one to infinity? Go ahead, try it. Where do you start, what are the first second and third “rights” that you feel are indelible, unrecantable, indoobidable? Is making this list not a worthy project?
And what about the obvious conflicts? What happens when two person’s actual equal rights come in conflict of one another? They often do. What then? What approach do you feel we should take? How do we settle the need to negotiate, bargain, mediate and come to agreements? Remember dear Doctor Perky, you have no right that automatically trump any of mine. Homes for the homeless is not a right, it’s simply something we should try to provide. You know, when we have the spare time and resources left over, to be nice.
Perhaps the best approach to these homeless communities now growing as rapidly as the old-shanty towns, the old-time-movie hobo-huts; Now that these fields of pop-up tents; these neighborhoods constructed of draped with plastic groundsheet over old discarded shipping palette, now that these encampments are swelling on the edges of every town and every city; Maybe now is the time to think, “outside the box”. Maybe with the exception of granting a few, new guidelines, provisions that would allow camping in certain areas; maybe we should just let them flourish, police them by enforce existing laws and give up the idea that continuous interventionist ideas, foisted upon these folks by local busy bodies who keep sticking their noses in it has any impact at all. Define a place with proper borders and declare, this is the new wild wild west you’ve been looking for Mr. Fella with Almost Nothing.
If these campers, the new settlers on the fringes of our crumbling cities and society are harassing local real-world residences, have the police investigate, arrest and prosecute these perpetrators as would normally be the case, in any case. Perhaps an added threat to a would-be perpetrator might be the permanent banishment to the city’s now quasi-legal encampments. Attempted theft or assault on some citizen still trying to maintain a foothold in “all that appears to be civilization” could result in one being tagged, told that they can now, formally never return from the encampment, the wild wilds. These homeless, these campers, these settlers of the unsettled territories at the edge of town have no more right to bother their neighbors than you or I.
We’ve gone and pooched our economy our market driven attempt at civilization. As someone how lives a few blocks from one of these encampment and is perhaps two bad decisions from moving there myself. I’m settling for the simple fact, we must do something different than any of the things we’ve done in the past, we have to stop doing or not doing the things that didn’t, have never-ever work. The numbers of occupants of these encampments will only be growing. Get used to these new shanty towns folks. These new Hoovervilles.Get used to your new hobo neighbors. Ultimately allowing all this camping in one place is probably safer for everyone. The campers tend to self police, and the city’s police are more likely to be able to keep the situation in control if they only have to patrol one “tent-city”. I’m not for wasting dollars the city will not have on service levels they cannot sustain if and when this situation worsens.
Let’s be happy if your city can continue to offer even a thin slice of its current services to the homeless. Perhaps the better to-do citizens, paging Ms Perky, maybe Karen Perky should consider donating more to one of the many arm’s length and private organizations that aren’t just pretending to “help the homeless”. Perhaps those ex-urb and suburb dwellers who’ve overfilled their big-box, monster homes could donate the overflow of stuff, shit, bric-a-brac and what not to these new edge-settlers. My guess is the edge settlers could fashion a few “Mall Painting” master pieces into a kind of wall-cover, a way to keep the breeze out of one of these construction-garabe, ill-fitted lumber cabins the more resourceful stitch together.
My rights as a citizen of Kingston aren’t that profound. Through the taxes built-into my rent I pay for some basic services that provide a modicum of hassle reduction and safety. I would hope this system and through the charity of my neighbours, I wouldn’t die on the streets if thing got very bad for me. I’ve very little these days but do continue to donate a little here and a lot less there, as we all should do, independently, without coercion or at the gunpoint which is tax collection backed by law, the enforcers of which are, as you know are armed.
All I’m really asking here... is that we stop saying that any of this, the encampments, the tents, the tarps and shipping palettes are “rights”. Stop getting all weepy and convincing yourself that “some elusive” and imaginary boogie/billionaire businessman has the obligation to pay for these imaginary “rights”. None of the new-edge settlers deserve anything more than what they can muster together with their own pluck n’ ability. Any of their truly so-called “human rights” do not trump mine, nore the billionaire businessman’s. Th right to the property you have paid for is a little more vaild than any right to squat upon said property. AND stop yelling at the government to spend my money through programs it cannot fund... If you can afford it, Doctor and Ms Perky of Kingston, shut up and pitch in. No one will ever stop you from being nice… with your own shit.
- Living Well Rather Than Just Not Dying
If one realizes the goal is to live well, then are we far more likely to live a good life? Life is not the ongoing task of preventing death. On the contrary, sometimes risking death will enhance a well lived life immeasurably. Cheating death is one of life’s sweetest victories. Cowering alone, in the dark for fear that something dreadful might happen, diminishes this life. Following one’s fears and retreating into the safest, most familiar hiding spot is not beating death, it’s simply, not living.
A key to the good life is to let go of the fear of dying as often as one can. Learn as much about death as is possible, the resources are endless. Although one can never know the ultimate truth of death, simply seeking this truth will open most people’s minds, possibly to the one available truth, death, your death specifically does not matter all that much.
I’m neither suggesting you ignore the possibility of your death nor embrace death. Rather, simply give it little thought, no worries. Do not let your fear of death sneak into those moments when you are most enjoying life. Do not let this creep into those moments just prior to sleep when your mind fills with those uncontrolled thoughts. Strive to make your life’s purpose to stay alive so that you can live. Do not strive to live simply so as not to die, as there is not effort one can make to prevent this wonderful end to a very good life.
- I Hope this Doesn’t Destroy You
- Q
These posts were a useful source of information, often an exceptionally useful starting point for independent research. The posts led me to some very interesting people to follow. The best of the Q post interpreters all produced solid “newscasts” none promoting despair porn and avoiding the infighting and bickering that at times plagued “the space”. The Q posts and the daily reports from my trusted interpreters became and for the most part remains an integral part of my daily “information collection” regime. Even with the possible end of the posts themselves, the “community” they spawned remains my primary way to attempt to figure all this out.
- Definitions, Conspiracies and Theories
the·o·ry — /ˈTHirē/ — noun: theory; plural noun: theories, a supposition or a system of ideas intended to explain something, especially one based on general principles independent of the thing to be explained.
The “theory” is the foundation of both the scientific method and critical thinking. One might go as far as to say that a theory was, is and always will be central to the human existence. “My guess is that if we crack the shell off this wooden-like rock, we’ll find food” was at one point, just a theory. Theory is the beginning of all knowledge whether the theory test true or false.
Conspiring is simply the way two or more people “get something done together. I might present a theory that the vast majority of things us humans have done have started with a conspiracy. This speculation rests primarily on my estimate of how little was actually done alone, by one person.
Obviously, this leads to the essential question: Since when is, “I have an theory a couple of people did something” a wrong headed speculation? Isn’t this simply just an idea, a notion to be reviewed, considered, investigated and “believed” or tossed out as ridiculous? How did we let the term “Conspiracy Theory” come to be used in a such a derogatory fashion as to stifle any further consideration? Personally, hearing something described as a conspiracy theory makes me want to look more and more closely.
SUGAR FREE [PART TWO]
…not missing it at all... may have been a bit of an overstatement, a bit bravado. There were definitely things I felt I was missing. I would have probably enjoyed a little more companionship, maybe a few more moments of interaction, conversation than the intermittent coffees clutches with David or William and his weekly get together with my mom and sister. Of course, wanting more is simply a measure of the good things in life.
He dodged another bullet. He found himself less and less a victim of these animal urges. His desire for relatively bizarre and adventurous sexual encounters still “pushed him”, often consumed all of his faculty, became his overwhelming focus, but now, rarely did he follow through to completion. He’d start winning small victory after small victory. Like the drugs booze and eating habits, he was wrestling control while… losing touch.
As I pass people on the street, couples, pairs, people engaged in conversation, I hear snippets of chitter-chatter I find almost unrecognizable. Does anything have any meaning anymore? I haven’t been able to get even ten minutes into a movie these days before realizing the plot is ridiculous and I utterly despise every last single character. Most of these characters being nothing more than cartoon figments born from the imagination of some kid who’s done nothing in life but claim victory in his pursuit of a “career in the movie-biz”. Even old the old movies, my favorites, movies I could easily watch every one or two years seem completely retarded. Whatever did I see in this fiction?
I re-read a book on “the Myths” and was reminded. We’ve been telling and retelling the same damned half a dozen or so same old stories for thousands of years. All born of consciousness to the extent; these stories are our consciousness, no?
The sugar free diet, just as was “quitting” the intoxicants, is quite intoxicating in of itself. I often told folks how quitting booze and drugs was as exciting as starting booze and drugs. Oh those crazed days of youth when stealing a micky full of vodka from the parents liquor cabinet or convincing your friend’s older brother to buy you a six-pack was the thrill of the weekend! The feel of those first fifteen tokes; the heart pounding thrill of honking a line off the toilet tank in that dirty old club with… what’s her name. Not doing coke or drinking booze for even a few weeks can be just as exhilarating. Not doing either for a decade, I hate to break it to you miserable stupid addicts, is even better.
Removing sugar is a twist in all of this. It’s like saying goodbye, thumbing your nose at this oh-so-modern culture of ours. As with quitting drugs and booze, there’s a slowing, that feeling as though you are moving through the streets on a different plane. Like those sequences in “The Flash” comix but instead of achieving invisibility via incredible speeds, no one see’s you as you’re moving that much more slowly, maybe just a little out of sync. You are able to watch all the activity around you with a smidge more intensity, clarity; the conversations reach you a bit more definitely, the actions and gestures of those around you appear to be taking place without any relationship to you what-so-ever. Everything is switched to a kind of hyper realism… and you are now playing absolutely no part in it… at all.
He went online… he watched a few minutes of filth, found an anon and finished off the errant indulgence. He knew it was a habit he’d have to break. He knew he could do it, so why hadn’t he?
- Notes on Sexual Equality (or Equity)
If you obey me, I will worship you.
What type of ritual do you prefer? I mean, rather than simply bequeathing equality to women, rather than this parity being a gift, maybe they should have to fight, claw, climb vigorously to obtain these so-called men’s pay rates. Why should we just hand them men’s jobs? Is being the CEO simply a matter of printing the letters C, E and O on a business card? I hear so many women flatly proclaim, I can do anything a man can do. OK, prove it again and again, year after year over and over for an endless string of eighty-hour weeks and, we’ll give you the job.
If this isn’t the prerequisite, what are we left with? What do we end up with other than watered down productivity and a complete abandonment of the notion that the best results are born of merit. If we reduce the weight a firefighter can carry up a flight of stairs to meeting the middling ability of your average women, what have we achieved? If we appoint CEOs based on having an inny or an outy, are we making better companies? What then becomes the hiring mandate of said CEO?
You know and I know that measuring woman against men on any metric is ridiculous. You know deep inside you, right deep into your dangling nuts that women and men are like the handle and head of a hammer. You can no more drive a nail with the handle than you do anything useful at all while gripping it on the head. Like any two-part tool, neither part is any better than the other. If the two parts are found to be of the perfect design and fit for each other… oh the beautiful things that could be built. I can’t even imagine how stupid a person would have to be to attempt at palying one aprt off the other, but… are you this stupid?
- Found: My Favourite Mindless Stunt
When you know no one’s looking grab a rock or a stick or something... you can do this anytime, along the hike, before the hike; heck put a rock in your pocket the night before your head off on the hike. Now, get a conversation going. I like to start talking about snakes or badgers or something even bigger. Maybe tell a tale of the time you were chased by… then, when there’s a pause in your story, a moment when all your hikers are kind of hushed, maybe waiting for the point of your story, toss the stick or stone into the woods beside the people up front.
Make sure to jump along with them when they’re startled and say “what the fuck was that?”... There’s one gal in my family who has suffered through this stunt of mine a hundred times. You’d think she’d start to catch on... she never will. I know why.
The key to the continuous success of this old trick is to do it every last single time. Do it with every person you take a walk withm every time you take a walk with them. There’ll be the odd time they might be waiting for it, if you spot this, throw off yur timing. Eventually they’ll get to the point where they know you’ll never do it again because you’ve done it so many times it’s stupid; this is exactly why you do it again. They’ll be so busy wondering why you keep doing it, they’ll never expect that you’re about to do it again. Then one glorious day, she’ll let her guard down, think that noise in the grass ahead of her was me and my stone or stick, and finally… she’ll be eaten by the wolf.” – This is what’s called love. At least in my neck of the woods.
- You Cannot Stop Them
- Quote: Long Gone
Nietzsche? C.S. Lewis… ? … I cannot recall but if only… I long for the days when strong men could have tough arguments leading to rough and dangerous moments followed by a slap on the back and a clink and tilting of the glasses. The glory of arguments not won, simply had.
Oh the lesson we learned while fighting the good fight, winning or losing. The words we’d fling, insults even. Crafted from thoughts forged in the fire of our own mental meanderings. Things we had read, things we had heard, things that came to mind over those long stretches of being “with ourselves”; out on a long walk or in the quiet of a sleepless night, neither tossing nor turning but just, quietly… thinking.
“I’ve learned little from the men I most often agree with” and, although I enjoy their company immensely, my conversations with these men seem merely warm ups, practices sessions and sparring matching meant to hone one’s skill prior to climbing into the ring. I love the man who’s fallen to an idea or two of mine, more so if they’ve snuck a few solid jabs into my way of thinking. And never… Never would I leave a man bloodied and down after landing a few solid blows with arms held high, no. That man on the ground is never vanquished if he’s thrown you a good fight. You help him up, give him a hug and look forward to that time he floors you himself.
There is no winner or loser in a life spent wondering and, the only championship ring one should ever truly be proud of is… the world’s most openest mind.
- Some People did Something, Twenty Years Later
I’ve followed many of these threads myself over the years. I’ve untangling as much of my own beliefs as I’ve been able. However, on these anniversaries, these solemn days of reflection, I vow to put away the politics for the day, and all the intrigue, the bits n’ pieces of this narrative and that and to simply remember the moment, ... the attack on the city... and the good things my then fellow New Yorkers did that day, especially those 343 who are... still doing it.
I behold it as an honored gift to have been so close that day, to have been an eyewitness to… some people doing something. I’ll never know what it must be like to have seen it as only another, thing that happened somewhere else, take place only on whatever screen was before me that day. To have smelled the smoke and seen the unfathomable unfold before my own eyes, to put perhaps bizarrely, a blessing. The experience left me an opportunity; a way to disconnect from the chatter-box arguments over what actually happened and why, a way to simply remember that day as something that happened to me, my city and the people I shared this home of mine with. My city acted well that day. Something to behold, something to be proud of. Indeed, some people did something that day. Some people became the best people they could be; even if only for that… most terrible of days.
- An Accurate Watch
How useful would this watch be?
Especially when all your friends and family’s watches were nowhere near as accurate. Every day, all the time, folks would always be arriving to meet you feeling bad about showing up late or showing up early and then having to argue over the accuracy of their own watches, always to lose this argument.
Worse, you’d start to be known as the dickhead who thinks he’s the bee’s knees because he has the watch, the bestest of the best watches, more accurate than your watch or, everyone else’s watch for that matter. Would you hold onto that watch? More so, how can you trust the accuracy of your watch when it so often, always even, fails to agree with anyone else watch? You may have become the one person in everyone’s life who’s always on time, but now, everyone in your life is never on time.
If everyone else around you is always wrong, maybe your watch is actually just… never right, ever.
- The Crying Eyes of a Child
Is there just as much truth in the absurd? Perhaps all those who are wrong, collectively are happy knowing what they know and as equally baffled by your not knowing.
Why does a child cry? I’ll suggest my guess… they’re something missing.
- A Note for the First Day of School
- Press Circles
How many actually got sick? I mean, really really sick. How many were hospitalized? How many fatalities were “from” rather than “with”? It’s been years now and they are still not listing proper statistics alongside every story... our media, or press has turned out to be nothing but a propagandist.
Why weren’t you demanding the whole picture? We found ourselves surrounded by worthless, lazy and utterly unprofessional journalists re-writing articles articles literally dictated to them from government and Big Pharma sources. Articles that focused on the “biggest” numbers that would create the most fear. Numbers that on their own meant very little if not nothing at all. Why was anyone satisfied with a press that did nothing but publish health official press releases? Why didn’t we demand more?
- Power Game Again
Was the liberty movement just that? Was not the appeal of the “Liberty” people, the America First folks a call for the notion that we could all live together in one place respecting each other’s right to do their own shit? I’ve never really cared how another man lives his life. I may comment on other lifestyles from time to time. I might describe different cultures as “less” even inferior, these aren’t judgements against “the norm” they are simply judgements against my own preferences. We are allowed have personal preferences; we are allowed to hold prejudices. We are also allowed judge, rank, rate and express options on others both negative and positive opinons.
I can tell someone I’d like them to “do this”. It’s probably better if I ask them nicely and present a persuasive argument on how it might benefit them or the both of us. I can tell someone that I disagree with what they are doing, how they are doing something or what they are saying… I can even tell someone I think they are an idiot and putting our community at risk. If I expect them to change or alter this behavior based on my comments, I’m likely being an idiot. If I physically force or coerce them in any fashion, I am being a criminal and deserve to be punished. For the most part, I can leave my opinions to myself. In as many cases as my opinions are correct, I’m as equally apt to be wrong or at least not completely right.
Two definitions to hold on to… one should clearly know the difference between…
A Hoax: a humorous or malicious deception.
A Farce: an absurd event.
- A Toast
If you Judge this debate within the context of my era, the age of “Television Media” TV News, you’ll simply end up making a complete fool of yourself. Do you even know what the golden age of television is/was? If you’re old enough to still be looking out for the mythical 1950s Television-Dad style Presidentialism, why would you still be looking for this? It’s a proven myth, it never existed. The Presidential Debates of the 21st Century, so far appear to be closer to the way politics really are than they have been for year. A raw brawl for real power unfortunately moderated by those who’s control over the channels” is far too great. The channels through which we are fed the information we need are yet too controlled by forces who’s only interest served are their own.
Although the current politic is presented as such, it is not sport. There doesn’t have to be a winner or loser. Cheering for the Blue Jersey over the Red Jersey is childish; aligning yourself specifically, measurably parallelly with any one, either of the two or three platforms presented by our current political parties is utterly ridiculous. Seeking all the information you need to make rational decisions and form even the most basic of opinions from one single source, is lazy. If that source is Television, you are an idiot. Television can no longer handle how the politics are delivered. Television is over.
The 24, 48 and 72 Hour Rules
Given the assortment of media sources one must tap into to shape one’s own truth, and given how each of these sources seem hell bent on drawing first conclusions; and given how first conclusions are often not the best given there will always be new information; I’m suggesting a series of “rules” to help one auger their reaction to “The News of the Day”. I rarely comment on anything I’ve heard within the first 24 hours of hearing it. Obviously if that news is expressing an actual physical danger, I’ll immediately prepare for action and take such as I personally see fit. The 48 and 72 hour rules basically express the time I feel is needed for a story, a narrative or for all the “after-shock” tremors to play out enough to form an actual opion on what just happened. In actuality, it’s long after 72 hours before I’ll ever settle on an opinion… there is no certainty, reality itself is now in the crosshairs…
“If You Like Subpoena Colada’s, And Getting Caught In Ukraine”
- Insults, it’s How Men Learn
...as for insults. Unless you’re insulting your best friend, your brother or your son, insulting people you don’t know, public figures et al, is really just part of civilized, pleasant even, adult like conversation. Being insulted by your best friend, bother or father, damn that’s just how one learns. As an older man who, has collected maybe a tiny portion of wisdom, I will leave you with this bit… grow up and take it like a man.
SUGAR FREE [PART THREE]
Have I just lost my way? I’m left wondering how many of us out here have been left unpinned and just wandering about in this completely alien landscape. Nothing is what it was even a decade ago. Those standard issue ideas we all formed in the late sixties, seventies and eighties have all been washed away, scrubbed even. Who are we? What have we become in this age were nothing seems to really even stick for for than a moment; fleeting moments washing over us like ripple on the back of a tidal wave. We are floating on the top of a tsunami that is wiping clean from this earth this civilization all we learned to recognize as our valid expectations.
Am I meant to be even more afraid?
I was told long ago that the folks “over their” had their missiles pointed at us. This seemed fair given my understanding of where our missiles were pointed. I learned my first lessons in the context of a war we didn’t want to have happen, the one that never did happen… at least not as we were led to believe it would. Total annihilation, the destruction of not only our civilization but, our species the whole planet even. Looking back that seems not so little a fear for a boy of 15 to make sense of. I’ve almost forgotten how that fear felt, what I did to assuage it, how I got over it and, whether or not I felt any relief when as a young man, the politics shifted enough to no longer maintain it. I only remember, being afraid of Nuclear Annihilation at the hands of… them.
Since then, it has been a cornucopia of fears. Environmental collapse, terrorism, drug addiction, the decay of morality, the iron fist of moral injustice, the left, the right, the left, right left, marching as fast as we can from one fear to the next. Every political decision became “what do we do to avoid this thing we fear” rather than how can we alter our course to make this wonderful world, even better.
He was no longer in love with anyone (other than his son and his family). He felt no longer built to maintain any form of intimate relationship with another women or man even. He hadn’t given up. He just no longer had any interest what-so-ever. I don’t think he would even recognize an expression of interest projected in his direction. He sometimes pined for a cuddle a touch, something more than a snippet of conversation but it wouldn’t last. He was slowly and easily slipping into a routine where he spent the vast majority of his time completely alone…
- Silly Political Stuff
Right-Wing Populists = Future Immune Superheroes!
While all the soy-boy’d cuckly-cucked lefty-leaning leaders like, say, Trudeau or Macron etc. were still hiding under their beds, shivering in fear, those who risked the 99.98% survivability rate would now be out there, running and ruling the world. Or, so we thought, hoped even.
BALLS OF MOLTEN STEEL... baby!
In the end none of it mattered. They all got it. Everyone got it, the vast majority survived it. Almost no political leaders died from it or even came close. It was almost as if they had made the whole thing up. In many ways it’s easy to believe it was all just a hoax, a ruse by these “leaders” to foist upon us all an even tighter control grid. Do ya think? …maybe?
- The Gentle Jew? Really?
- Tear it all Down Man
These pathetic idiots seem to be hell-bent on changing the names on every school, every street, every park and every place that maybe once meant something… to someone… once. What do these name changes accomplish? Do they erase the so-called atrocities of the past? Do the new mostly generic names portend to a brighter future? This practice seems to be nothing more than a shot at the older folks who are the only one’s who’ll remember that original names any way. Once these folks are gone, what will the next bunch of kids be left with? Certainly, no buildings who’s names they could so righteously change.
Maybe this next bunch of kids will charge themselves with the responsibility to re-name all these generically named places? Perhaps the little kids of today can be instilled with a feeling of responsibility to re-honor the great men of the past by putting all the old names back. Maybe after I’m long gone, that idiot kid who’s pissing me off by childishly tarnishing what I see as a fabulous history will themselves have to live through their own personal horror as all my grandchildren say “fuck you” and re-name the Queen’s Law Building Sir john A. Macdonald Hall, or… maybe they’ll just call it Kanye West Place.
- Born Dying
There are some who believe that you, yes you are nothing more than animated Hamburger meat.
I’ll make this prediction. Your trip down the road will be a bit of everything. Some days you’ll be having the time of your life and the scenery will appear to race on by; other days will be dreadful and you’ll wonder what cursed fate brought you to this place. After a few times arriving at the latter part in this road you’ll begin to realize, it all looks pretty much the same in the rear-view mirror. Past good days and bad will seem to blend into one big ol’ good time. You are indeed not just animated hamburger meat… what you are is…
- To Those Who’ve Never Bothered to Read a Book
- There’s a Funny Thing About Those Whose Ideas are Never Noticed
- Look this Gem Up Some Day
- Let’s Call it the Not Quite Annual nor Regular Constitutional Shakedown Tour
It looks like the good ol’ USA is in another intense conflict, maybe the worst since... (too early to tell) ...Luckily, unlike shithole countries The United States of America a nation ruled by law, right? Laws that should prevent these conflicts from going kinetic, but who knows. I’m sure there’ll be more crowds on the streets at some point...
It's important to have laws, have your rules written down early in the game. When the shit does hit the fan, and it will… when the bugaloo is upon you It’s important to know, not only what rules to follow but, what rules you’ll be breaking as you sally-forth to win this part of the game. You will be left with one man standing in the end, only by knowing the rules beforehand will you ever know if he’s the good man or…
- The Difference Between a Hoax and a Farce
Fetishize: have an excessive and irrational commitment to or obsession with something.
Understanding the difference between a hoax and a farce, might just save a life, or two... one day. One day if (when) they try this bloody nonsense ever again.
SUGAR FREE [PART FOUR]
As I walked up Princess this morning, our little high street, our downtown, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, while passing one of our more TONY bistros, a woman, alone at one of those big tables with twelve chairs, those tables it’s now trendy to share with strangers. She was alone, I caught this image for a mere moment. There she sat, alone at a big table wearing a nice hat, a white toque, with a pom-pom. She sat there alone sawing through an extremely over complicated bistro breakfast, likely some version of some eggs benedict concoction. Pouched eggs on an English muffin with some kind of sauce and too much arugula… Catching the glimpse of her, sawing away, by herself, at this big table I couldn’t help from feeling even more detached than normal, at least what’s passing for normal these days.
I’ve enjoyed countless nice breakfasts and brunches at hundreds of TONY bistros. I used to love breakfast out as they were the most reasonably priced meals of the day. To be honest though, I likely preferred the diner breakfast. You know, easy peasy, eggs, sausage potatoe and toast… and a bucket of coffee later. Maybe I read the, maybe me and a pal attempted to solve all the world’s problems again or maybe… kicking off the day’s business with a meeting over easy.
Suddenly though, maybe it was the hat, maybe it was her being alone at a huge table, sawing away with what appeared, at least for that moment I saw her, with no joy, no enthusiasm, no interest and a plate cover in too much tangled and overly complicated swirls of arugula, but… this mad no sense to me. Again, this detachment, this separation from everything. I seem to have arrived at a moment in life where none of this means anything or matters at all. I could never have another breakfast out and I’d not miss it or, I could have a great time having a breakfast with a friend tomorrow. Neither matter. It’s all just a show, a play, one of those poorly written movies you turn off after the first act realizing you don’t give a shit, one flying fuck about any of the characters; in other words, every movie I’ve started watching in the last five years… garbage. All of it, meaningless, pointless garbage.
I was left wondering as I wandered the rest of the way home… Is it just me or has everything just become that dull and uninteresting? Maybe nothing has been all that interesting ever. Could I have been fooling myself all along? Even these questions seem pedestrian, stupid and without any real purpose.
He seemed to be drifting, or was it simply floating, silently, motionlessly. There was no real direction to any of this. He was here, but not here. He participated but neither felt the need to nor that there would be any difference if he stopped participating. He was no more sad about this than he was happy about anything. He was still waking each morning to a feeling of absolute dread. He was still able to shake this feeling within five to ten minutes of his exercise routine. To say he had become a ghost would be dramatic. He just simply felt he was no longer a part… of any of this nonsense.
- Please Stop (to be finished)
Out of curiosity, I follow many current scientific arguments. I also enjoy learning of the discoveries we’ve made through the scientific process over history. I adore questioning these discoveries just as much as I adore learning why the current interpretations are considered correct. I’ve spent much of these past years exploring alternative arguments to evolutionary science, astronomical science and the grand dad of science, the philosophies.
I’ve submerged myself into dozens of books on quantum mechanics and the continued speculation surrounding the confounding “new dark” sciences, dark energy, dark matter. Writings and reports on quantum field mechanics, quantum gravity n’ such are like candy to me. I’m really enjoying the works of Carlo Rovelo, described as the “Poet Laureate of quantum gravity and time”. I’ve been gobbling up dozens more books on genetics, cultural evolution, behavioural and political sciences in an gloriously awkward attempt to, among other things, formulate a ridiculously ferocious argument on... the conditions we’re in and am madly trying to form my own opinion on human consciousness.
I kinda, sorta understand the basic concepts behind vaccination science. The whole notion of introducing a harmless “dead” variant of a virus into our “system” in order to trick our bodies into creating matching antibodies to fight it, this makes perfect sense to me. I’ll admit I don’t fully understand the technology and engineering behind the “suspension materials” nor the effects of chemical compounds that are used to physically deliver these “dead variants” into our system. I’ve read reports that leave me concerned that some preservatives and other “secondary” ingredients used in “classic” vaccine technology are worrisome.
Alongside these ‘secondary’ elements used in current vaccines how could one not question vaccine technologies that more and more rely on a genetic level delivery mechanism? Can we even call these new medical procedures that deliver codes to our cells that instruct them to create mimics of the virus so that other cells then create antibodies vaccines? The fact that they are selling what is essentially genetic therapy as a vaccine, why wouldn’t one have some suspicions? I mean really, who’s not even just a little suspicious of say, genetically mutated groceries?
I feel no loyalty towards, nor the need to put unwarranted faith in our Universities, their laboratories or the nameless cabal of scientists who conduct the work and research into the medicinal applications of vaccine science. Quite the opposite in fact watching these centres of higher learning spiralling into nothing more than union run indoctrination centres, feeding off the government tit and dipping into the public till. I mean… really.
I’m grateful for the past efforts and do enjoy the fruits of the painstaking efforts of many of these institutions but why would I blindly trust anyone soley on the basis of past results? Especially when I know these past results were as equally failed as they have been successful. Scientific research is, as discussed, by nature a, what have you done for me lately endeavor.
Why put blind trust is a professor I don’t know intimately but do know is motivated, driven even by the securing of peer allocated funding for the perpetuation of his research job? Isn’t the dolling out of government funding by peer review just a grand circle jerk? Institutionalized scientific research funding is nothing more than a group of scientists deciding who in their group to give funding to today, knowing they’ll be the same peer group deciding who gets the next round of funding tomorrow.
Consistent with these suspicions, why would I ever invest my most precious resource, my trust in the Pharmaceutical Industry? Even as an ardent traditional capitalist myself, one who is obviously and completely satisfied that all the “wonders of the world” do ultimately come from one “industry” or another I see no need to apply the concept of trust to these companies. Even as a firm believer that the market is the fundamental driver of all progress, trust is really not a commodity I feel the need to invest in an “industry”. I particularly see no upside to placing this trust in an industry that has proven over and over again that it will always put profit against performance and has historically obfuscated its own research and lied outright to turn a buck.
Before any product gets my positive attention, the FABs must be well defined. When considering the features, attributes and benefits of any product, let alone a product I’m going to injecting into my veins, mixing with my blood and permanently integrating into my very being is at issue, the company producing a selling this product better have an extremely well-defined benefit to risk equation laid out before me. Benefit being the keyword in this equation. Science is less something to be trusted, far more something to be measured. The mechanism through which I measure a product is through a calculation of risk vs benefit... with a healthy dose of, what’s this going to cost me both in monetary and non-monetary terms.
We were asked to “calculate the risk”. of injecting a hurried medication that was being sold as a “vaccine” even though it was really a gene therapy. The marketers of this medication claimed that this genetic treatment purportedly stifled the transmission of the virus thus reducing the chances of my contracting the illness or giving it to someone else if I did catch it. An illness that statistically, given my age, I had a 99% chance of surviving.
It seemed to me at the time, given all the calculations I was able to make; when I measured the benefits of the so-called, misnamed COVID vaccine, my survivability was the the least of my concerns. Before it ever became “my turn” to take the medication, the story they were flogging had already changed from their “vaccine” preventing transmission to simply, it increasing the aforementioned survivability rate. A rate my calculations easily resulted in my have absolutely no fear of succumbing to the disease.
The drumbeat from the media began to sound more and more that the benefits would be measured not in efficacy but rather in “social acceptance”, a measure by which I would be allowed to participate in society. I can’t remember how long I considered taking or not taking this medication, whether the decision to a whole second or an almost immeasurably short fraction of this second. When the story changed again from “you should take the medication to protect yourself” to “you must take the medication to continue participating in society” I immediately knew that decision was sound. When they attempted to glom a Chinese Communist Party Social Scoring system on the back of the medication through these vaccine passports, I knew we were in for a fight, a fight that continues to this day.
I’ve apportioned a great deal of trust over the years. I’ve also earned a little and probably misspent far too much more than I’ve deserved. I naturally default to trusting my fellow man, including a few of these wretched “scientists”. I’ve misplaced as much trust in lovers as I’ve placed correctly, and I’ve reaped the rewards of putting trust in a solid circle of friends. We are bread to trust kin, our families and through a form of reciprocal altruism have grown our circles of trust into great societies! So just stop this nonsensical call to “trust the science”. Stop childishly hiding what you’re really after. You and I both know, in the end, it’s not the science you’re asking me to trust... you’re asking me to put my trust in you…
Which, when you make a good case, I usually do.
- Censorship is Really Just an Act of Fear
On October 15th, 2020 “Big” tech showed us just how small they were.
- Astroturf Uprisings
In the longer term, in the battle between propaganda and “truth”, truth may be the ‘long play’, but it is the better bet. — If you honestly believe there was an attempt to “bring down” the American government one afternoon, enjoy your narrative if it gives you comfort, I do the same. It’s what we all do and that’s why these puppet shows work I guess. As it has done so over all the eons, the history of these events will shift and wiggle from here to there depending on who’s in “power of the pen”. Your interpretation of events may never change but the telling of this history will.
Already what really happened on January 6th 2020 is no longer as important as the events that have sprung from the telling of what happened. In this case two distinct “tellings”. What I’m noticing now, well past two years after the day. The quick and shiny story that was used to shape the following few days leading up to the inauguration is fading fast. The truth, as I perceive it is beginning to emerge from the cacophony that was the endless propaganda. Of course, this may simply be optimism on my part and I will never know the final story in the end. We remain a long way from determining the winner who will earn the right to write this story’s final version.
- Cockroaches and Marketing
“Consuming” on its most basic level, is what you, all your friends and all your family do. Primarily we all consume “stuff” in order to continue to live and thrive. Of course, the concept of consumption can also be fitted to describe those activities we need to enact to be comfortable, to be happy, to provide for our loved ones. Consumption at its core interpretation is not a negative, it is a necessity.
We gain access to these things we need and/or want to consume through various “channels”; the electrical outlet on your wall is a channel from which we consume the electricity that drives all these devices. The grocery store is the channel through which comes most of our food; the tap, the stage of a theatre, a book likewise are all channels of consumption. These outlets from which we consume that which we need to thrive are themselves fed by an intricate freeway, a system of interlocking distribution channels. Many of these channels are owned and are the domain of for profit businesses, some, say a stream or the ocean from which we fish are natural but, they all have some form of impediment that can potentially stymy the flow of the items we need from time to time.
The act of Marketing and those who are employed as Marketing and Sales professionals in many ways are tasked with removing impediments in these channels or simplifying access to the outlets of consumption. These folks make it easier for your friends and family members to find and gain access to the thing they’d like to consume. Some marketing and salespeople are good and will point the consumer in the direction of things that have a positive impact on one’s ability to thrive; other sales people are not so good and will steer you towards things that impede your thriving while helping themselves to thrive. This trait is not reserved for marketers and salespeople. Producers themselves, those who feed the channels, will often make items, food, music, books that are just as harmful and they will find marketing and salespeople that will help them get these bad products around the impediments in the channels they use to reach your friends and family.
Some consumers are cockroaches, some producers are assholes. Some marketers dedicate their lives to serving assholes to get shitty products past the impediments and into the hands of cockroaches. You might think, if there were no Assholes and Marketers, there’d be no cockroaches. There will always be cockroaches, there will always be assholes and there will always be marketers to assist the assholes getting their product to the cockroaches.
Change the channel.
I don’t know why I felt the uncontrollable need to comment upon Ms. Klein’s quote here… Maybe it’s because I was once a marketer myself, for years. I respect you as a consumer and really don’t like seeing our friends and family, the consumers we know and love, called cockroaches… they’re just doing what they do. What they need to do and want to do.
- It's Never the Noise that Kills Us Dead
It’s never the noises that kill us. Death comes in the silence. The stifling of the new idea, the rabid arguments of the old. Those who believe that quashing voices is the noble cause, they so often, so stupidly truly believe in their own good intentions. They long for the safety of the quiet, the fool’s peace, the quiet room, becomes their cell, its doors locked... their refuge becoming their own…the noiseless coffin.
No bad idea was ever beaten back by silence, no good comes from the suppression of a noise, even if just, a whisper. On the contrary the only true test of a good idea is whether it can rise above the cacophony of bad. The only way to find great ideas is to disentangle them from the horrid. Once again, the only way to counter mis and disinformation is... with more information.
It’s not that people are not seeing the ever-oncoming clampdown, it’s that they are themselves crying out for it. Begging for the comfort of the tyranny of silence, always seeking the simplest of answers. Believing that the silencing of voices they’d rather not hear will save them. Problem, reaction, solution, Hegel with a side of Machiavelli... because, if my brother’s not for me, he’s against me. The simplest of equations: Promise to save someone from their greatest fears and they’ll put their very lives into the palm of your hand.
So what of the “banned tweets”, the men tweets sent from the account of America’s 45th President? I’m sure the Library of Congress will have these available as they are, for the most part, the property of the American people and legal documentation of this Presidency. Likely more an issue for some scholarly legal wonk, but it would seem to me that Twitter’s petty, high-school girl like snitty little action to ban a sitting world leader, the most powerful leader in the world was less an afront to Donald Trump, and more a criminal act against the American people. By censuring a President they are denying the citizens of the US access to the Office of the Presidency. I’m assuming someone will pick this up as a doctorate thesis someday, it will make for an interesting read for sure.
History and current affairs are fucking cool if you’re able to stop whining like an infant and wrapping yourself in your wretched, self-absorbed... “feel feels”… History and current affairs should never be left to the fearful.
- Whiny Bitch
- It's Called a Hunch… Buddy
It was a hunch. And, maybe if you’d get over yourself, tone done the arrogance for a minute or two, you might start picking up on your own there, buddy. Yes, it really is that simple. Stop believing that you can calculate your way to being 100% right all the time. First off, it’s not a high school exam, the mark doesn’t matter. Secondly, no one has ever scored perfect and, most importantly often, the best answers lay in that quiet part of your mind. That place you have little if any control over. Some call it the sub-conscious, I prefer to call it the meta-conscious. That part of us that is way, way beyond us or that which you think is you. A field of information that can only be tapped into in one’s stillness, those unthinking moments when you perhaps stop trying to maintain the contiguous entity that is you, your ego, the entity you believe exists, has form… a beginning and an end.
I’m not talking about some “eastern flower-power” or hippy-dippy spiritual program, religion or faddish cult. I’m talking about the state we’re all familiar with but have absolutely no means nor ability to describe. That place where, when your mind takes you to it, you just know you are there and good things simply begin to pop forward; when your thoughts are clear and the answers seem easily at your disposal.
How did I know not to follow the science? How did I know I was being played? How did I know I would be better off in the long run? Sure, I could revise my own history, pound my chest, stand up straighter and spout off about researching this, reading that, watching this, noticing such n’ such patterns of behavior, all of which played a part but… (and the real answer always follows the but) …it was indeed a hunch. I took a break from reading, researching, from the cacophony. I managed to find that instance, that imperceptible moment of quiet, away from myself and played the hunch. Some perceive this as receiving guidance from God or a higher power. They’re really not wrong to believe this, at all.
- The Alcoholic Genie Joke
He stumbles out the door, shakes his fist and babbles something he thinks is clever in an attempt to regain a little dignity and heads off towards a bar closer to home that might likely, if he plays it right, float him a few more double Jacks. As he shuffles off all grumpy and dying for another drink, he’s startled when he stubs his toe on… and realizes he just kicked something a few feet down the pavement. At first he thought it was some old tin can as clanked metallically down the sidewalk. When he caught up with it, picked it up, studied it a bit he eventually recognized it an old lamp, one of those old timey brass oil lamps that look like a way to small and fancy jug you might use to water flowers. He gave it a wipe to see if there might be something etched on it... of course, out pops a genie.
“Let’s have those three wishes” barks the genie...
Our drunk pal is at first a bit put off by this fuckhead of a genie’s attitude and barks back; give me a Jack n Coke ya big blue bastard! — The barten… um, the Genie hands him the drink and says, all deadpan and mostly annoyed… you’ve two more wishes.
As the guy takes, in an odd moment of semi-clarity, he realizes the enormity of his situation... He’s seen enough Genie movies to snap himself into a somewhat more coherent state. He realizes his initial error and tries to steady himself. He knows he has to get the next two wishes right… think… he lets his thoughts go for a moment and asks, slowly and in a very measured tone “…can you give me a bottle of Jack that never gets empty, is full all the time?”
The genie hands him the bottle, rolls his eyes and calmly almost sarcastically adds, “…your wish is my command.”
The old drunk, takes a tiny little swig. After witch, he rights the bottle, takes a good hard look at it, and quickly can see, it’s the same, it’s still full, right up to that point on the neck of the bottle, just as he wished. He takes another swig, it’s still full... he takes another and another, he laughs and smiles, he looks up at the Big Blue Genie in disbelief and cries out… “ya beautiful bastard, the bottle is still full!!!”
By this point, The genies getting a bit annoyed himself, pissed off even. He barks out again... “I need that third wish you drunken fool. I’ve got better things to do.”
With barely a hint of hesitation, the drunk starts to speak, pauses, takes another swig, looks at the still full bottle, smiles, looks at the genie then back at the bottle and cries out in glee...
“I’ll take another one of these!”
- The Hasidic Jew Joke
Eventually the bartender wanders down to his end of the bar and is about to say something about the frog, probably ask the Jew to put it away or take it outside when…
“…ya wanna see something nifty?” asked the old Hasidic Jew in the hat. You know Hat, white shirt, the lock of hair by his ear… white shirt, long coat, balck pants n’ hard shoes…
The bartender nods grudgingly, sure. The old Jew smiles as the frog on his shoulder ask the bartender, “can you get me a Pilsner mate?”
Needless to say, the bartender was put back a bit. Quite a bit. A little bewildered he asks, “what just happened he’re?” The frog asks again, a little more firmly “can you get me a Pilsner mate?”
Shocked, a bit stuned but mostly amazed the bartender waves for the folks at the other end of the bar to come over, “get a load of this frog guys, have a look at what it can say here…” He asks the Jew, “…can it do it again?”
The frog say sternly, subtly registering his growing annoyance with the bartender seeming to ignore his drink request, “can you get me that Pilsner mate?”...
The small gathering of patrons let out a collective gasps, they’re immediately in awe... The bartender asks the Jewish fella, “…so where did you find it, where’d ya get that thing?
The frog replies “over the Williamsburg Bridge, you know Brooklyn, by the East River, the place is crawling with ‘em.”
- The Order in Which We Learn Things
It’s with this notion in mind that I finally got around to reading a bit of Descartes who, reminds me that learning not only provides us information needed to escape the orbit of god, but also lends itself to the understanding that the inevitable regression towards god is not infinite and that what’s learned as one spirals towards god himself... is more than just god...
As I trudge this path from realism through materialism and onward into a more dualistic understanding of things, I am starting to realize that nothing, ok, very little is outside the realm of possibility. I don’t pin this entirely on Descartes. I’ve learned not to blame our philosophers but rather blame us interpreters. There’s little point in getting angry with say, Foucault or Derrida there is however ample justification in being really pissed off with those who turned their nonsense into “Critical Theory” … Now we’re getting somewhere.
One has little control over the order in which they stumble across their sum total of life’s learning. Oh sure there will be the more regimented moments, say during the school years but, even then, the myriad of things learned after class, when hanging with one’s buds will have an impact on those lessons far greater than one could ever know. As important as this order is one’s dedication to learning itself and more importantly the realization that you don’t know everything; the admission that you know very little, almost nothing and… even then… What you do believe you know, could just as eaily all be wrong. As some wise man said, who, I’ll never know for certain…
Belief is [indeed] the enemy of knowing.
- A Crime Against the Listener
As once said by a man smarter than myself, “I have learned very little from men I agree with completely.” How is one to develop a sound way of thinking while being denied access to concepts he finds appalling? How controlling is it for one to believe that they know what’s best, what thoughts and information is salient, worthy enough to integrate into my patterns of thinking. I want to hear it all. I have the right to hear it all. I have the agency to sort good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff. If you believe yourself better able to filter my input, away with you, you disgusting, arrogant simpleton.
I will listen to anyone; I will consider everything. The more I know, the better decisions I can make, the better ideas I will form. When the fool speaks hateful garbage from the rooftops, it allows me to identify who the fools are, and as is almost always the case provides the munitions I need to counter his arguments. How can one challenge so-called hurtful and hateful perhaps bigoted commentary if one is denied the opportunity to hear it for themselves. One of the beauties of letting all speak, is to learn who is who, who to avoid, who to follow for a time.
Ultimately, who the fuck are you to decide who I decide is worthy, unworthy, hilariously wrong or surprisingly right? Who are you to swoop in on your virtuous chariot of goodness and make decisions for me? Who are you to decide what is safe for my children and what gives you the authority. What makes you think I’m not able to point my children away from charlatans (such as yourself) and towards, the good. This freedom to speak, this free-flowing public square of chit-chatter, this LAW that every man must be given his say has far less to do with the man saying these things than you or I, the men who need and have the right to hear any damned thing said.
- That Guy Really Liked Cheese
On this day, my now ex-wife was walking through the tunnel with my little boy. He was probably just three, maybe four. Midway through the tunnel there was a deranged fella going on about Jesus. His crying out “Praise Jesus!” “Jesus saved me!”… “Oh how I love Jesus!”...echoed through the passageway.
My son’s mother, being a tough as nails Roman and a thoroughly experienced New Yorker by this time in her life, would likely have not worried one bit, but likely steeled herself all the same, as any experienced New Yorkers would when faced with one of the deranged people we’d come across daily, in that loveable shithole of a great big city. She likely held my son’s hand a little tighter as they walked towards this fella, approaching the middle of the tunnel.
As she tells it, my son was a bit amused by the guy and his going on and on about how he “Praised Jesus!”, how “Jesus saved me!”…and just how much, “I love Jesus!”... My son stared at him, he likely turned and looked up at his mom for assurance as they passed him in the tunnel. He looked back at the deranged man a few times as they passed him by, as his ramblings echoed... “Praise Jesus!” “Jesus saved me!”… “Oh how I love Jesus!”
As they got to the end the tunnel. My son looked back at the man, looked up at his mom, looked back at the fella and said to his mom, “...mom, that man really likes cheeses” — yes my son, I mean indeed, the guy really seemed to have like cheeses...
- Just Let Things Go
- Tinder Please, I’m and Old Man
- Dreaming of Jim
In far too many ways, this dream of mine, this dream of Jim was a way too obvious a dream. Given our history, my current reading list, and recent conversations with other chums, it was probably the most likely of dreams to be dreamt last night. I’m giving it the title, “My Dream of Jim, Kingston’s Own Man in A Barrel”. Remember, it’s a dream, not a play, even if it were and it was, a dream about Jim and a play. Note to the outsider, Jim is a theatre guy. I mean a top notch well known theatre guy… To call him a playwrite, a director, a producer a company leader would not do his role in Canadian theatre justice… Jim IS a theatre guy.
It was that kind of dream where one keeps you waking up to through the night, fading back to sleep and still having the same dream; sometimes adding half woken elements to it... sometimes just chuckling, other times frustrated that the woken elements hadn’t made as significant an impact on the following “asleep” segments of the dream. One of those intense, unshakable, no shaking your way out of this one type dreams.
The primary sleeping elements of this dream was Jim and I yelling at each other, arguing over something. The setting shifted from the Manse, the old house behind Saint Andrews Church, where I worked for Jim for a while to various locations along Princess Street. I just assumed; in a dreamy fashion or yelling at each other, this argument was theatre related... The fact that our friends, actors that were also in Jim’s employ at the Manse, Jesse and Paul had small cameos in this dream, confirmed the argument was likely about some play.
The gist of this dream play was Jim’s opus portrayal of Sir John A. MacDonald. Apparently this play, this portrayal took place in a storefront along Princess Street and was meant to run for the rest of Jim’s life, if not the rest of eternity. I’m certain Jim wrote the play, I’m not sure if he was meant to play the part of Sir John naked or whether the script included you taking a shit “on stage” ... let’s assume there was a lot ad lib on Jim’s part, not too far out of character… I recall the play including a lot farting, loud talking, yelling even. Looking back, I think Jim would have been very good casting in the role of someone like, say Diogenes… maybe.
The waking elements of the dream, rather those semi-lucid moments included more “tactile events”... things that have happened around town such as the stripping of Sir John’s name off the Queen’s Law Building which followed so obviously along during this continuously childlike times when we seem to leap at the opportunity to placate everyone by un-naming everything. Our City Council’s seems to constantly in utterly boring fashion to endlessly pander to the indigenous community; believing their own pompous belief that the role of council goes at all beyond the fixing of potholes and initiatives to bring new businesses to town... It would appear that Mary-Rita, a mutual friend of Jim and mine’s, who also worked at the Manse and now sits on council was given an offstage role in our little dream-play.
As adults... we both know that dreams don’t play out like plays. There’s rarely a third act to rap up the tangled ends. I finally woke to the impression that it was a great dream, a good play, well received and reviewed. It did play in one of Kingston’s many a closed storefronts with you in the leading role for eternity... our friendship remained intact and...in the end, it must have been a very good argument indeed! – I don’t think I truly thanked Jim for being such a huge catalyst in my settling here in Kingston... it’s been a pleasure and an honour and... if that note did reach a ghost, damn I’ll be pissed off!
- Authenticity
The Wiser Man’s Enemy
The wiser man leaves room, a space for his opponent to find an opportunity to argue, negotiate even. The lesser man, the stupid, or perhaps even the desperate and dangerous man leaves his enemy no quarter, no options but to attack.
What option have "we" left Mr. Putin? Really?
Um, stop and steady yourself, just for a moment; ask yourself, you don’t think that Venezuela wanted Swedish Socialism too?
- Enough for the Flat Earther Already
- The Pageantry of Coercion
There’s a case being tried in New Mexico… eventually though, regardless of where you are, YOU WILL BE TOLD... YOU CANNOT WORK unless take this medication. You will be denied the freedom of travel and mobility. You will be denied any number of basic services. It will involve the collusion of players in multiple industries and will employ coercion rather than legislation to force you to comply. This coercion although being quietly administered by industrial and government agencies will be acted upon you directly by your coworkers, your neighbours, your friends, and your family...
For the second time in merely a few months, I was to be blessed with the opportunity to watch the glorious pageantry government manipulation unfold before my very eyes as good friends screamed and screeched their opinions at one another. It was desperately sad watching dear friends let fear get the best of them, abandon their well-tuned critical thinking abilities and become agents of the state. Bit players in yet another horrendous piece of philosophical theatre.
Oh most certainly I was to be swept up and into it. My own opinions and passions could have only led to me “speakinmg my mind”, bruise more than a few feelings and break a few bonds with a few of a few remaining good ol’ friends...
Hopefully I never claimed to be in above anyone, or beyond all or any of this but, you may have noticed, I am a bit of a “voyeur” when it comes to these passion plays. These theatrics that seem to be endlessly rolling down the “Appian Way” day after day, after day. The voyeur side of me always seems to cry out, bring it on! – Let ‘er rip! Most times when faced with a moment like this, I can’t wait to watch the shit as it hits the...
It’s times like this one that test what we have become; as friends, as a people as a society. What has our so called “civilization” evolved into? Have we really learned any of the lessons of the past, or will we simply slip into old behaviours. Will we always let the masses run the joint, let the mob rule? Will we always let ourselves fall far too easily in with this mob? Will we always find it far more easy to just go along to get along with ? Will we be so easily convinced to simply trample the remaining glimmer of hope out of each n’ all of the last remaining individuals, the last fading embers of the fire’s mankind lit over these these last thousand years or so?
Hopefully it’s obvious, I was only, once again, rooting for our better natures. I felt we were, once again, having the time of our lives and that our lives simply depended on it. In the end, I hope you’ve drawn a more positive conclusion now that this chapter, this period, quarter or play appears to be essentially behind us and… remember, that ndespite having been divided onto different so many teams... we were all always on the same side of this grand (non zero sum) game being played upon us, this grand chessboard. AND, despite being put on, our choosing to join these separate teams we were never not in pursuit of the same ends, you and I and that ultimately, we should always remember, neither of us are the better and there is never shame in changing sides as new information comes our way.
This fucking game, it never ever ends…
- I Found this Somewhere Along my Travels: Why Carry a Gun
I don't carry a gun to kill people; I carry a gun to keep from being killed,
I don't carry a gun because I'm evil; I carry a gun because I have lived long enough to see many of the evils in the World and, they can get pretty bad. I don't carry a gun because I hate the government; I carry a gun because I understand the limitations of government. I don't carry a gun because I'm angry; I carry a gun so that I don't have to spend the rest of my life hating myself for failing to be prepared. I don't carry a gun because I want to shoot someone; I carry a gun because I want to die at a ripe old age in my bed and not on a sidewalk somewhere tomorrow afternoon.
I don't carry a gun to make me feel like a man; I carry a gun because men know how to take care of themselves and their loved ones. I don't carry a gun because I feel inadequate; I carry a gun because unarmed and facing three armed thugs, I am inadequately prepared. I don't carry a gun because I love it; I carry a gun because I love life and the people who make it meaningful to me.
Police protection is an oxymoron: Free citizens must protect themselves because the police are not here to protect us from crime; they are here to investigate the crime after it happens. We call them when we need someone to clean up the mess. Personally, I carry a gun because I'm too young to die and too old to take a whoopin'!
A LITTLE GUN HISTORY – PLEASE DON'T THINK FOR A MOMENT, THAT THIS COULDN'T HAPPEN IN YOUR COUNTRY.
In 1911, Turkey established gun control: From 1915 to 1917, 1.5 million Armenians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
In 1929, the Soviet Union established gun control: From 1929 to 1953, about 20 million dissidents, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
In 1938 Germany established gun control: From 1939 to 1945, a total of 13 million Jews and other “others” who were unable to defend themselves were rounded up and exterminated.
China established gun control in 1935: From 1948 to 1952, 20 million political dissidents, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Cambodia established gun control in 1956: From 1975 to 1977, one million educated people, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Guatemala established gun control in 1964: From 1964 to 1981, 100,000 Mayan Indians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
Uganda established gun control in 1970: From 1971 to 1979, 300,000 Christians, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.
At the very least, 56 million defenseless people were rounded up and exterminated in the 20th Century after gun control laws were enacted in various countries around the world.
You won't see this data on the US evening news, or hear politicians disseminating this information. Guns in the hands of honest citizens save lives and property and, yes, gun-control laws adversely affect ONLY the law-abiding citizens. With guns, we are 'citizens'; without them, we are 'subjects'.
During WW II, the Japanese decided not to invade America because they knew most Americans were ARMED! Gun owners in the USA are the largest armed forces in the World! If you value your freedom, please spread this anti-gun control message to all of your friends. The purpose of fighting is to win. There is no possible victory in defense. The sword is more important than the shield and skill is more important than either.
SWITZERLAND ISSUES A GUN TO EVER HOUSEHOLD. SWITZERLAND'S GOVERNMENT ISSUES AND TRAINS EVERY ADULT IN THE USE OF A RIFLE.
SWITZERLAND HAS THE LOWEST GUN RELATED CRIME RATE OF ANY CIVILIZED COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!!!
IT'S A NO BRAINER! DON'T LET OUR GOVERNMENT WASTE MILLIONS OF OUR TAX DOLLARS IN AN EFFORT TO MAKE ALL LAW-ABIDING CITIZENS AN EASY TARGET.
I'm a firm believer in the 2nd Amendment! If you are too, please forward this. If you're not a believer, please reconsider the true facts. This is history; and if we do not want history to repeat itself, we must wake up.
- Transactions ARE Human
Most often oversight: “For the love of money...”
Money in of itself, is simply a “mechanism” we use to express value, money is benign. It’s our spiritual relationship to money, this mechanism, where in lays the problem. Money, lending, commerce in all forms is mentioned throughout our religious texts, books of worship of all stripes. A commercial transaction is as human as anything. The transaction is quite easily the foundation of civilization. Society is formed through kin relationship and bonds of reciprocal altruism. The transaction is how we measure the latter. It’s how we conduct ourselves in these transactions that matter... honestly, earnestly, modestly, enthusiastically, and with kindness and generosity, in other words, altruistically.
Found: Escalation of Commitment
Escalation of commitment is a human behavior pattern in which an individual or group facing increasingly negative outcomes from a decision, action, or investment nevertheless continues the behavior instead of altering course. The actor maintains behaviors that are irrational but align with previous decisions and actions.[1]
Economists and behavioral scientists use a related term, sunk-cost fallacy, to describe the justification of increased investment of money or effort in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment ("sunk cost") despite new evidence suggesting that the future cost of continuing the behavior outweighs the expected benefit.
In sociology, irrational escalation of commitment or commitment bias describe similar behaviors. The phenomenon and the sentiment underlying them are reflected in such proverbial images as "Throwing good money after bad", or "In for a penny, in for a pound", or "It's never the wrong time to make the right decision", or "If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging."
- It Will Come from Business
Admit it, you were either barking instructions at your neighbours, friends and family OR, they’re barking orders at you. Problem, reaction, solution... using mob mentality to drive their Gestapo, the Stasi, the KGB tactics. This mob was you and me and... there’s not a damned thing any of us could have done to stop it.
Historically, government was simply meant as an idea, a system, a process to keep us from trampling one another’s other’s rights, rights we were born with. The idea of government seems to have been lost to the ages. Our governments are continuously co-opted by those who want power; want complete control; people who believe themselves to be kings. We’ve let them teach us to teach ourselves that by granting them this power our safety shall be ensured, that any rights we believe we hold were granted to us by our governments and that only by allowing power to be centralized within the Cabal they’ve convinced us is our government, can these rights be protected. Once again, they have pulled one over on you. So here we are again, all is lost... until... it’s not again.
- They WILL Track Us
They don’t tag turtles to watch a turtle, they don’t chip birds to follow where it flew one day. Chipping the masses is “next level” tagging n’ tracking. It’s Marketing Analytics at a granularity you couldn’t imagined. Adding highly attenuated geo-spatial and health vitality statistics to the mix. Understanding the murmuration of the masses allows for complete and utter control… of the masses. A herdsman watches over his flock, his dog chases down the strays.
Zip code marketing changed the world, tracking and tracing phone calls allowed marketing analytics to deliver the most wanted products, candidates, and messaging right to the doorstep. And remember, the greatest trick the devil pulled was making you believe he didn’t exist... The greatest thing your government ever did was to convince you it was bright enough or organized enough to pull this off; while they sold themselves out to the extremely bright, wealthy and well equipped little known demons. These little demons who wants to deliver their messaging, right to your doorstep and into your soul
If you’re reading this on a “phone”... you’ve already been tagged.
- Pissed off America
It really doesn’t matter what you or I think, 75 to 80 million Americans, maybe more, think the 2020 US election was a mockery and that Biden is an illegitimate President. They’ve watched the mainstream media overplay the events of the January 6th puppet show and are pissed at being linked to what they believe was an Antifa/FBI orchestrated puppet show.
These Americans were then told their stimulus checks were to shrink from two thousand to fourteen hundred dollars and that their share would be a grand total 9% of ONE POINT NINE TRILLION DOLLARS the Biden administration was spending on... the fact that even ONE single dollar was going overseas was... pissing people off.
It was hilarious to watch Twitter, Facebook and YouTube believe they had booted everyone who might frighten you off their platform and blocked their influence over the nets. If you though anyone who’d had their favourite commentators silenced over the social was happy to just let go, and didn’t just take that anger next door... you really should have gotten on Parler, Gab, Bitchute, Telegram or Rumble. Whether you or I agree that it was bald faced censorship or not is irrelevant. What you and I discuss is a fruitless philosophical conversation, at best... to the 75 to 80 million Americans however, it was censorship… plain and simple!
These 75 to 80 million Americans are still pissed off n’ angry... and it’s these 75 to 80 million Americans who won’t take lightly what they perceive to be a foreign backed takeover of their most precious of possessions, their elecions. These are the gentle, normal, average Americans who work, play, raise families and rarely complain as loudly as they are today. And, they’re the 75 to 80 million Americans who are armed but, who don’t riot, who don’t commit crimes, loot our burn their cities to the ground. These are the citizens who will quietly wait until they are pushed to the precipice. Don’t for a minute believe they aren’t being pushed.
- Institutions Crumble?
Not a single one of the institutions we believed were in control is as permanent as it they once seemed to be. All our dollars, our various currencies are meaningless, the banks on Wall Street are a mirage. Even the men under the Pointy-Pontiff Pope Hat and the Wonky Chocolaty British crown are perched upon ancient crumbling family chairs that appear to be missing legs or barely able to bare the weight of what’s coming... Oh, and, it is coming... I’ve no clue when, I’ve no idea how. All I know is that everyone I know can feel it. Like I’ve said before, it really doesn’t matter what you or I THINK... it’s simply a feeling. A stinking thinking sinking feeling... that... as it ends... every little things, gonna be alright.
And… I’ll even betcha a hundred dollars... nothing will play itself our as either you or I predict it will play out… a week, a month or even a year from now.
- Mush
Hey, isn’t mocking the value of $20 dollars an arrogant slap against a man who cannot afford a cup of coffee… Tom
Why wouldn’t a “vaccine” passport list all disease one has been immunized against? Why stop at immunization, why wouldn’t it contain one’s HIV status? What about your entire inoculation schedule, the date of your last flu shot? How could Canada ever allow those from poor countries with poorly run health authorities into our country? How could we ever trust that Nigerian proof of vaccination was not just “paid for” via a corrupt system of graft? Why wouldn’t we hold all visitors to the same requirements as our citizens?
SUGAR FREE [PART FIVE]
Total fucking decay. Everything around me on this walk today, out to the point. What’s the point? The makeshift tent-city, shanty town that sprung up in the park alongside my favourite walk out to the point on Belle Island, what a fucking mess; it doesn’t appear to be growing it’s just getting sloppier and sloppier. Full of absolute… shit. These poor fucking deranged drug addicts. Sleeping, wet, it soggy tents in the fucking snow, getting high… one would hope.
Now don’t get me wrong, I prefer this being their fate rather than scattering their tents towns all over the city. I think they’re probably safer all bunched together. Maybe, just maybe watching out for each other. Even just a little bit. It’s just, it’s just that it’s become such a garbage dump.
A few weeks back the city announced it would be “evicting” all the campers in a week. Oh how my virtuous neighbors did rejoice in the news. Finally, they’ll get the help they deserve, …the help they want them to have but wouldn’t ever begin to offer themselves, nor offer to pay for it. Obviously, the city wasn’t offering anything. There was no plan to help these soggy, smelly un-shelter-able drug addicts, just an evection notice. “Get the fuck out, Go somewhere else.”
I think the virtuous got wind of this, there being no plan and the whole eviction idea was scrapped, until March, when again, there will be n plan. The better weather will attract new campers, the site will grow and nothing will change… more fucking decay. Rot. People barely clinging, but at least cling on their own terms I guess. It’s the one thing I like most about this decaying lot, this “community of rot” along my walk to the point. They’re living on their terms, at least best they can. They’re establishing some personal agency, a little bit of control. The whole fucking world is decaying around us. These dirty drug addicts are at least decaying at their own pace, by their own “rules”. Tough bananas if it just happens to be a little bit faster than the rest of us are decaying.
“…what the hell are you on a diet for? You’re skinny as a rail!” she asked, indignantly.
Obviously, my sugar-free, caveman/biblical diet isn’t about weight. It isn’t about appearance, it’s simply about health. Getting rid of processed sugar, chemical additives, colors, flavours, preservatives and such, it’s gotta be more healthy right? I mean, it’s good for my mental health. Like giving up drugs, booze and smokes, I no longer feel chained to some asshole’s product. I no longer feel beholden or hooked on some fella’s “stuff”, some fella with questionable motives; some organization or agency’s “secret mission” if you want to be conspiratorial about it. Fruits, vegetables, meat… nuts and berries.
“I’m of the belief that this is what we were meant to eat. It’s healthy, it’s filling, and it improves my general well-being, my attitude and, hey maybe I’ll achieve some kind of better oneness with my penial gland or something. Become closer to God.” He answered matter of factily.
Barely clinging on… but that’s what we humans do. Even these sodden, unfortunate Belle Island Park drug addicts are clinging, holding on for dear life. Why? Because this life, is truly the most precious gift we’ve been given. It’s more than that even, you’ve been given something that is what it’s like to be you. You’ve been given a self, something that allows you to feel, experience… when that idiot drunken father of your’s luckiest of sperms sunk itself into your mother egg, you sparked, you jumped, your taught but motionless little membrane of potential “lit up”. A murmur, the mildest of vibrations, then another and another until it one day became the swirling, singing, quivering throbbing mess that is you, and only you… clinging to this life, stoned out of your fucking mind in a soggy tent on along the way to the point, what’s the point on Belle Island.
We cling to life because that, in the end is really all we got, and all we will ever have. We cling to this shit-ball because where we are is all we know. We cling to this not because we’re happy and satisfied with what we have. No, we cling to it because we know for a fact the very next moment will be better and, when it isn’t, we shrug it off and work towards the next moment… knowing it will be better.
In the end, is that really so bads?
- The Guy on the Stoop
If I were simply the guy who’d shovel the steps all winter. The guy who’d sculpt the snow into precision embankments, the guy who swept the salt and dirt off the walk after last week’s melt... If I were the guy who picked up all the garbage that melted out of the snow banks, or blew onto our lawn… If I were the guy I really wanted to be, I’d be the guy who picks up the butts from everyone who has walk by our doorways (those nasty butts he knows he'd be blamed for)... I might even be the best tenant anyone could ask for, butt... sigh, would they even see the guy I’d truly like to be? Or would they only see they guy, me… their neighbor standing outside, again smoking another butt that’ll be blamed on me.
I'm going to give it another go at quitting this year... Butt, I will not quit being the happy, friendly guy who keeps his own corner tidy & clean, best he can... here at the Rag n' Montreal :-)
On a happy note… I finally did quit smoking, and man, it was a whole lot easier than I’d always make it out to be.
- Rappino & Coercion
Oh and if you submit to being vaccinated through coercion you will be changed forever. Perhaps not from the vaccine, but rather from the mere fact that you submitted to the coercion.
- Her Very Last Day
I told her how honoured I was to be driving her off towards the rest of her life, closer to her old hometown... I am a bit of a drama-Queen when it comes to these things, these special moments even in some strangers life. She tried to remind me that I’d driven her to and from work more times than a few… I nodded and pretended to remember, ‘cause that’s what you do.
She told me how this move all made sense and that she was happy to have one of her favourite UBER driver for her last trip home from the hospital. After all, “I was the guy who’d told her about the acid trips in LA, ...right?” …um… I reminded her it was an ecstasy, trip and then wondered (damn, just what have I been telling all my riders over the years anyhow?) I reached for my media-player (the spare phone I’ve set up specifically for music and books) and fumbled for a song I knew would work... there is indeed, at this point near the end of history, the perfect pop-song for every customer service opportunity.
As “I hope you had the time of your life…”, that old Greenday ditty play on…
She sniffled and smiled and I drove her towards these last few days and nights in her apartment on Armstrong. I reassured her that she was moving for all the right reasons (I guessed correctly on the closer to family part)... I suggested that this change was to be wrapped in pretty memories as she popped out the door... As I drove away with a nice little self-satisfied smile I thought, yup most days small town UBER driver is just about OK. I mean, if you’re upright and nice, you’ll end the right side up, on two feet, especially on these especially nice, maybe even drizzly steel-gray late summer days.
- Offend Someone, NOW
- I am Not Buying Into this Silly Class War
- There is No Proof
NOTE: the previous was obviously written before there was any proof. OBVIOPUSLY, there is more proof now… no?
The only facts you’ll ever know about me and the COVID vaccine is, you will never know whether I’ve taken it or not, ever. Just like you’ll never know if I’ve taken a flu shot, if I’m on PrEP or any other prescriptions. And what does that even matter if you’re not sniffling, coughing on me, or kissing me... I’ve weighed my odds, my odds alone, of contracting COVID and surviving COVID and will continue to weigh these odds as I make my very own decisions. My promise to you? If I’m sniffling or coughing, I will stay at home and, I likely will not try to kiss you… ewww.
- My Opinion
Please note, your opinion of me is none of my business and I will do my best to keep my opinion of you to myself. My opinion of your opinions however, that’s another story. These opinions will likely become the basis for some very good and gleefully opinionated conversations down the road. If you’re not party to these wonderful conversations, I’ll do my very best to keep your name out of it. Of course, I can’t promise you anything. That’s my opinion.
- Who is More Loathsome?
If you think letting your government decide what is essential labor is remotely a good idea, wait until we let them decide how much income you need is “universally” and “basically” ... enough. Enough already
“Some of the biggest and boldest of men in the United States of America, in the field of commerce and manufacturing are afraid of somebody, are afraid of something unknown to any of us. They know that there is a power somewhere so organized, so subtle, so watchful, so interlocking, so complete, so pervasive that they had better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it.” - Woodrow Wilson
You are being played. You probably know this; maybe you do, maybe you never will admit it. This is all a lie. It always has been, it probably will all remain a lie for quite some time. Best that you see it as quickly as you can for once you do, you cannot un-see it. And seeing it is the first step before being released of the fear of… it. Stop giving into it. Play along with it, but do it smartly, with personal agency, with a purpose.
Stop… Being… Afraid
- I am NOT now, nor will I ever be Anti-Yarmulka
On the contrary, conforming to another’s customs is more often a highly uplifting experience, if it doesn’t seem phoney or gratuitous, I’ll especially wear a kippah/yarmulke anywhere that it might be a show of respect or even if it’s just good customer service... I would never mock anyone wearing a kippah/yarmulke never question them or judge them in any way. To each their own, and to all a good day. A blessed day really... לבריאות
- Under the Bus, The Story of a Bad Bad Mayor
Our Mayor is a weak weak man. — He’s a clown... I mean really, if he cannott defend his faith and separate this faith and his beliefs from those in his church he does not agree with; if he rather turn his back on his congregation, his friends his long tme fellow parishioners… He’s truly pathetic... half of this current council are nothing but hob knobbing virtue signaling, interventionist wimps... the other half are on “someone’s” payroll. I would rather have a mayor who belongs to a controversial church; who has convinced me that he does not agree with some of his church’s more controversial stands BUT who has made his faith clear to me, promised my he’ll continue to separate his church from his role as mayor AND continue to be a, pretty good mayor… As of this incident. He’s now just a snivelling idiot who has abandoned his faith, his friends and himself, for what… the chance to wear the Mayor’s sash for another four more years. Now empty years as he no longer has much of a purpose… as a man.
- I Will Keep My Nose Out of your Business
- Saad is Happy
A little harsh? OK, here’s another take... I’ve met dozens of Muslim women. I drive them arounds regularly as customers,; yes even here in li’l ol’ Kingston. Most of them come here as students, commonly doing a residency on their way to their medical degree. Many of them have studied abroad for years. Often completing their undergraduate degrees at home on the Peninsula then doing their medical degree in the States or in Europe. A smaller group are the wives of Arabic men, also completing their medical degrees or post graduate degrees here at our little University.
Upon first meeting up with a Muslim woman, a new arrival, here in my car, I will honour them by never being the one who initiates the conversation. I’ve been around enough Muslim folk and conservative orthodox Jewish women to know this would be an insult. It’s funny how, after a few rides, mostly the young future-doctors will eventually crack. After, say the third or fourth trip they’ll usually pipe up and say “hello” to me. Often, this is the start of a wonderful little friendship that’ll last for the duration of their stay here in Kingston; most of them are here for a five-year medical internships or three year fellowships.
One of these women, Gahda was unusually quiet for almost two years. It was awkward in-so-much as she lived way out in the west end and our silent trips could last for 10 t0 15 minutes at a time. Happily though, once she opened up, I couldn’t get her to shut up. Over the course of our next few trips after our initiating a conversation, the stories began to flow… almost endlessly.
The stories all stemmed from how her son, her husband and herself had been split up and separated across three countries in order for her and her husband to complete their educations. He was doing a post-doc in computer science in Washington DC, she was, here finishing of an internal medicine residency and their son Saad, was at home in the Kingdom, with the grandparents.
I adore most of the Muslims gals I take for rides around town in my car. Assuredly so, most here in Kingston are a bit more educated, some obviously wealthy, but almost all of them display an outward sense of dignity and control that can so easily be attributed to their faith. After reading the “Abrahamic Books”, at least the big three, the Bible, the Qur’an and the Torah in the short span of fourteen months I’m reminded of what we’ve given up to have these self-directed, if it feels good do it lifestyles... How could I ever feel any disrespect for women of Islam wanting to wear her hajib? To be honest, I kind of envy them, their husbands and the steadfast joy, the control and dedication these expressions of their faith must bring to their lives.
On one of trips, later in the friendship Gahda reported on her having been accepted for a Fellowship in Toronto. We’d been speaking of this for a while, it was easy for me to share how happy I was for her. The move meant that her husband could easily fly back n forth for the last year of their separation. They were even considering having Saad come to live with her in Toronto as, the date of an actual family reunification was formerly at hand.
She became quite giddy on our last few trips. I heard many stories of her childhood in Saudi Arabia. She confided in all sorts of things, many of them that would likely get her in trouble with her husband and her parents. I’ve gotten the same level of giddy from other Islam girls as well. I think once they know you’ll never meet their “others” they’ll lososen up like anyone else and starte spilling the beans a bit… I’m reminded og the time two interns and I drove down some Kingston road whoping it up in the excitement of the announcement that women would soon be allowed to drive on their own…
The last time I drove Gahda to the hospital, you never knbow when the last trip will be so, the conversation is always about the same. I did tell her that I’d be saying goodbye as if it were our last about three trips before this one. She had been giving me updates on her departure date. She told me where her new apartment was, a part of Toronto I’d not had much experience in. I told her it was a great part of town all the same. I asked he if the decision had been made about bringing Sadd over, if she’d finally be reunited with her little boy…
“Oh yes” she beamed
And then she said, for no real reason at all… “You know in Arabic Saad means happy”
It’s not really that odd that I didn’t know this but… It’s something I will now always know.
It’s fun to get to know folks. My rule is to always say hello, always try to spark up a conversation, always ask even the most difficult questions with a lilt in your voiuce that assures one, you do actually really care. I love the challenge of “cracking” open a conversation with one of these Muslim gals! It’s never been not worth it, even if you get the bashful aloofness the first few tries. Gahda has been gone from Kingston for a few years now. I’d ask some of the Penisula gals she had left behind how she was doing. I did find out that indeed the husband had moved to Toronto and that they were all together with their son… In the end, Saad was indeed happy and… that’s how we’ll leave that one…
Oh, and wait, the nuns... I’ve got great nun stories from my time spent hanging out on the stoop at Our Lady of Pompeii on Saturday mornings in the West Village, but those stories miught be better for another day
- Death of a Friend
No one likes being played or watching others being played, especially when the game is death of a friend. Or someone just like a friend. This being said, if you let yourself be played, you might just be an idiot. Sorry if this seems harsh but, this is the price one pays to participate in an opinion shaping exercises such as these.
It might be the only way we can preserve the solemnity of our passions towards the death of those we hold dear may be to soundly mock the fake tears that flow surrounding the death of the nameless in these all to frequents stories in the press. Perhaps the only way to save the sanctity of death is to never let the “sellers of the manufactured sad” catch up to us and catch us off guard, while we are week. It’s not that I do not care about the mountain of folks who died today, the folks I’ll never know. It's just, if I care too much for all this death around me, I may just run out of the “care” I’ll need to mourn the death of someone closer, someone who’s life means all the world to me.
- Indians
- Terms of Bigotry
Deriding someone on their ideas is “belittling” behaviour. It paints the as a close-minded fool. If you think people not wearing masks hurt you in some manner, keep a wide berth. If you feel people without masks hurt society remember, the “safety” of of our society is no more your jurisdiction than the person not wearing a mask. So… shove off you arrogant twat... You do you, and leave me be.
- The Left Right Swindle
The Bob Marleys, Bob Dylans and Johnny Rottens et al of this world were a huge part of the left right “swindle”. This bait n switch “rock n roll” belief system that suckered three generations into a fake rebellion that did nothing but put morons into a comma where they’d “imagine”, in their fantasy world that doesn’t, never did and never will exist... that they were in fact cool, that they were making a difference man...
It was all manufactured. None of these bands were ever anything more than the Monkeys. Oh sure some of the songs were nice, well-crafted and fun to listen to but the message was garbage. “Burn it all down man” turned out to be a fucking disaster as, it all burned down, there’s very little left and we’ll be lucky to get out of this alive…
Boy, the way Glenn Miller played
songs that made the hit parade
Guys like me we had it made
Those were the days
Didn't need no welfare state
ev'rybody pulled his weight
gee our old LaSalle ran great
Those were the days
And you knew who you were then
girls were girls and men were men
Mister we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again
People seemed to be content
fifty dollars paid the rent
freaks were in a circus tent
Those were the days
Take a little Sunday spin
go to watch the Dodgers win
Have yourself a dandy day
that cost you under a fin
Hair was short and skirts were long
Kate Smith really sold a song
I don't know just what went wrong
those were the days
- Climate Changes, So What?
If you’re a kid right now, angling which way to turn for a good career. My suggestion, imagine a post-climate change bullshit society and the jobs that this might make available, BUILD THAT JOB.
- A Seriously Huge Admission
- Censorship is Out of Control
The only way to keep one “safe” from misinformation and disinformation is tyo provide one with even MORE information.
“Bill C-11, is an attempt to put a pillow over the free expression of all Canadians. It didn’t pop up gopher-like out of the policy burrow of a second-tier Cabinet minister. Quite the contrary. This nefarious nugget was obviously the product of the top-rank philosophes of the Prime Minister’s Office, that sensorium of the whole Liberal party, from which emerges guidance and wisdom to elevate the lives and labours of ordinary Canadians, all set out with the confidence of a closed-minded pope.”
The moment Canada adopted hate speech laws was the moment we abandoned free speech to the person who was empowered to claim some such comment “hateful”. Who thought giving someone this power would be benign? Who couldn’t see, immediately that this “hate speech” mantra would become the bludgeon that would easily silence all comers… Allowing anyone to claim damages by another’s speech by claiming it hateful is a trap we may never emerge from. I will beg my friends in the United States of America… beware: Those touting the need for hate speech, hate your guts and… they want you dead.
- Belittling Motherhood
- Any Sovereign Nation
Citizens of other nations were also faced with the attempt to apply similar systems within their societies. Most of them succeeded in stemming the establishment of such horrors. Be that as it may, the attempts to put us into these digital gulags will not cease. If not for health reason our governments will turn to economic reason. They will tempt us with offers of safety, convenience even “equity” or offers of seemingly “freebies” by offering say, a basic income. If you fall for it, all will fall. Humanity as we know it will be forever imprisoned, winnow and die. Yes, I am not being dramatic.
The elites who foist these systems upon the rest of us will fare no better as fewer and fewer within the ever narrowing echelons of power scramble to keep those just below them on the hierarchy from climbing above they themselves and squashing them into their own digital non-existence. Despite the gleeful shrill of the scientific materialists, their own time “at the top” will be measured in days if not hours.
This is civilization ending shit; species ending. The age of central bank. digital currencies, universal basic income, equity, social credit scoring et al, is upon us. The lie that is AI is being sold to enslave us. I have no answer for you, no suggestion but to resist. Resist with all your might, with what little humanity you have left. As we will soon find out, this humanity is rally all we ever had.
- Putting Words in Their Mouth
- Three Gorges Damn Collapse
- Pretty Bold Move
As your history passes through the hands of future generations, what triumphs of yours will simply be washed away by the most negative who wish only to see and focus on your flaws? Flaws that only became so as society progressed and trampled them to the ground. A future society hell bent on removing you from their story, continuously stomping out your memory with the pounding sounds of virtuous jackboots upon their freshly minted hallowed ground... AND, it will be good ground, nay, perfect ground upon which they stand.
So, keep digging you glorious little creatures. If it’s the horrors of the past you seek... horror is all you shall ever have. And the unimaginable untold horrors of your pathetic little future await.
Once we eliminate all things that offend someone, we will be left with... absolutely nothing.
Their vote to remove the statue of Sir John A. Macdonald but to put it back up elsewhere only exposes their lack of any real convictions. It is a spineless, meaningless gesture born of political immaturity and a “sucking need” to maintain their own tenuous grip on ridiculously worthless civic authority. It’s sniveling at best, utter cowardess in reality. I’m wondering if they even really have the authority given the “national” ramifications of denigrating a symbol of our nation in his own hometown.
Sadly, the fortitude of those in Kingston who disagree with decision is now on full display...disgusting in its silence. And, here’s the truest little secret, giving in on the statue issue doesn’t solve any problems. It only emboldens these troublemakers to create more... troubles. Once all the names are changed, once all the buildings are torn down and statues removed, the only thing left in their way, on their way to total control will be you.
- Meeting Santiago
All the new kids were to meet in the gym. There were four groups of K and per-K kids all sorted into each corner. Of course, most of the boys were running around at center court, being chased by some mom or dad. It was while our son was taking his turn running around when my Italian wife’s ears perked up. She paused and went over to a fella chasing his boy around, happily barking at him in Italian. It’s funny how one can so easily her their native tongue being spoken, even in the most cacophonous places.
As she struck up a conversation, I wandered over to watch the boy around her mild distraction. Santiago and our son had resigned to sitting and playing with toy cars together at our feet. I never did learn Italian all those years but I could make out bits and pieces; my Italian wife mentioned to me the boy’s name and returned to the conversation with his father. It seemed more involved than the usual Italian et Italian “what has you here?” type conversation I’d been witness to on any number of occasion. It was fast n’ furious at times, my wife was dropping some familiar names, appearing floored when the fella seemed to be agreeable; finally she looked over at me at exclaimed, you’re not going to fucking believe this.
So here we were in some random New York City Public School gym. First day for our boy. We meet an Italian speaker which in itself could have been consider a coincidence but not completely outside the realm of possibilities. Turns out, every question these two exchanged of each other just sunk deeper and deeper into the “no fucking way”…
“So you’re Italian?” my wife asked first
“No, I’m Puerto Rican, but my wife, his mother is Italian. I speak it…” he relpied
Then he offeres that they’d all just returned from a month in Rome and they’d all got used to using it.
“Where in Rome were you?”
“My wife has a place in Ostia Antica…”
“My mother moved to Ostia years ago, this is where I go when I visit…”
He offered that they have lots of friends, for some reason he mentioned that they’d just left a nice visit with Mario and Vivianna...
This must have been when the conversation got fast n’ furious. This was my wife’s brother’s name and Vivianna was his wife’s name. “Viviaana and Mario? …from Ostia? She blurted out her last name, stunning them both. – Here we were in some random New York City Public School gym. First day of school for our boy and we meet a kid and a dad who’d just spent a good part of a month not only in the same part of Rome as my wife’s brother but, was actually dear friends with them. Needless to say, my wife became dear friend’s with Santiago’s mom and my son has been friends with Santiago ever since.
Shit like this does happen. When it does so, embrace it. It means… everything.
Of course there’s also the story of the time in Vegas; at an Evander Hollifield fight when after standing in line to pee for what felt like an hour. I glanced at the guy next to me and found myself peeing right next to the lazy-eyed drunken moron I’d been of a pub-tour with in Central London about seven years earlier. I don’t talk to guys at the next urinal while I pee; he finished before I did and sunk into the crowd. I knew it was him. I’d never have forgotten the eye!
- It’s All Garbage
- There’s No Church in Rome
- The Victory Celebration
- The World is Far More Interesting at 5 AM in the Morning Than it is at 5 AM at Night
- Echo
- Give Yourself Permission to Believe in Things You Know are Probably Not True
- You are not alone (Little Green Tomatoes Revisited)
SUGAR FREE [PART SIX]
Do you think I care about your options of my opinions… ?
…leading to my detachment but commitment to the altruistic agreement we have reached
Final SUGAR FREE 7? Leads into the graphic novel of god discovering