An Enticing Offer

And there it was in my junk mail box. An email with no discernible subject line. Sure, my computer had labeled it spam, but at that instant, I could not care less. I wanted to open it; I needed to open it. The ‘from’ line held one simple word only: ‘luna’. Who was this ‘luna’? Why had she chosen me as a vehicle through which to spread her messages of intrigue?

I could hesitate no longer. Grasping my optical mouse with my right hand, I steadied my wrist and clicked the message bar. The single line of text that lay within could not have been clearer.

luna wrote:

throw away your parasol, your massive member will cast shadow

The statement was bold, but beautiful in its scope: Do away with my parasol, because I will have an engorged penis which would be capable of shielding me and, ideally, those around me, from the sun. I instinctively pushed my cursor toward the link included in the message. After all, anyone this succinct must necessarily be so wise as to not require the encumbrance of additional words.

Then my hand stopped. A curious prickling sensation in my mind was causing me to question my own impending action. Was this really the right thing to do? Did I really wish to have a phallus so large, so chokingly oppressive, that not even light could escape it? A literal black hole of anatomy hanging from my forequarters?

As I began to think about it further, it became clearer and clearer that the right thing to do was to retain my birth genital, however incapable it was of functioning as a beach accessory. It also began to stand out that, even in such few words, ‘luna”s logic was not impenetrable. It began to seem clear to me, once the initial seduction of the proposition had waned, that several reasons stood against my making use of the enigmatic message’s advice:

1. Parasols don’t grow on trees.

Yes, a penis of such glorious girth that it would preclude my use of a parasol would save space in my beach bag, but was it really necessary to impertinently toss my parasol away? After all, my father gave me that parasol. When you buy a new car, you don’t just throw your old car away. There is nothing wrong with my current parasol. In fact, I always sort of liked it; would I really be willing to give up on it after all it’s done for me? I mean, I lost my virginity under that parasol. Yes, it was a little awkward doing my already awkward business with one hand occupied holding it above us, but I thought it made the situation a lot more romantic. And while parasols don’t grow on trees, I’m pretty sure shade literally does.

2. I sort of like my genitals.

And, goddammit, we’ve been through a lot together. In fact, if we’re talking about penises, I mean, really talking about them, mine is sort of the only one I really want to discuss. It would appear I’m biased in its favour. Sure, maybe my penis is only able to cast a shadow onto my thigh, but maybe that’s all the shade I need.

So, sorry Luna. Really. You dreamed of a world where men could relax, have their hands unencumbered, and still shield themselves (minus their penises) from the dangers of prolonged sun exposure. If my lack of interest in living in a world of men with healthy, milky white skin (but burnt and blistered male members that could smother a polecat) is spoiling your dream, then I apologize.

But I’m still not gonna get the surgery.

Dear Squirrels

Dear squirrels who run out into the street just ahead of me,

I’d like to have a chat with you about statistical probability. Hey, don’t worry. I won’t get too technical. You’ve got a lot of nuts to gather, and a lot of suburban neighbourhoods to overrun. If anything, this letter is intended to empower you to keep on doing your thing. But in order for you to keep on doing your thing, you need to stop darting out in front of me, man. For real.

Look, I understand that the occasional slip of the mind might happen. Maybe you saw an incredibly moist-looking acorn, or a stinkin’ chipmunk sniffing around your territory, and you felt compelled to protect your interests by bolting across a busy street. It happens. But like, I said: statistical probability. You and your brethren seem to have come to a consensus that when confronted with the threat of being crushed by an automobile careening toward you, the best option is to hesitate, then run in a zig-zag formation toward the curb then back in the direction you originally wished to go—often stopping multiple times directly in front of the path of my tires. I assure you, this is not the most sensible option, statistically and mathematically speaking.

You see, squirrels, when you run across the road in one direction, you create a vector. On this vector, there are theoretically infinite potential points of contact. When I drive down a street, my car tires create two more vectors (for simplicity’s sake, let’s ignore the thickness of my tires—this is squirrel-level mathematics after all). These two new vectors will intersect with your vector and create two new points of contact. Think of them as “death-spots”.

Let me illustrate this in terms you can grasp. You’ll be the walnut, and my tires will be the pounding fist.

See me coming up on ya? That’s right: I have two fists, and you have one line. You may suggest that the scales seem tipped in my favour. Here’s where it gets interesting. I can only hit you one time on that line. Sure, I get two chances, but once you’re past that second fist, you’re home free, rolling in plush-tailed chiquitas and balling all day, if that’s your scene. If it’s not, I’m sure you have a nice nook somewhere.

The problem is, you’re not giving me one clean line, bro. For whatever reason, you’re doing this:

Let me tell you, as quick as you may be, statistically, you’ve upped the ante. Is it out of fear? Look, I already feel guilty enough that, because of our roads and cars, you’re forced to face soft rolling death from above every day. But am I to infer that because of humanity’s horrid influence, you’ve permanently lost the ability to differentiate between away and towards? Because if that’s the case—if we, as a species, broke your brain—then I don’t think I can cope with that guilt.

Just like a real fist pounding a real walnut—sure, it hurts the walnut plenty, but it hurts my fist too. Except in this case, the walnut is you, and the fist is my heart. Don’t make me punch myself in the heart, little hamster, cause it’s a battle we’ll both lose.

The Shame of a Withered Frequency

It is a dark day indeed when someone with morals as perverted as Mr. Apple’s will remind me of my inadequacy as a blogger. Yet, I have to admit, the challenge of tri-weekly posting, let alone daily posting has been pressing down on me and crushing my insides, not unlike the sole of a Doc Martin on a pigeon’s skull.

For those of you, after last post, who are concerned for my disfigurement, like Tirunesh, worry not: there are few things as precious to me as my face.

So why the robust lack of posting when compared to the glory days of, say, last April? Well, here’s a brief list of catalysts to my blog’s downfall.

1. For nearly the past month, I had been suffering at the hands of CIA Local Phone, a company that lures you in with cheap phone and high speed internet (which works great when it’s up and running), and then snatches it from your clutches leaving a gentleman like me, and his Russian counterpart, adrift in a sea of phonelessness and Internet anemia.

2. Three days a week, I have been rehearsing for my role as Ricky Roma in David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross, a hugely successful play made even more famous by the 1992 movie of the same name, in which Al Pacino expertly recites the line “You ever take a dump that made you feel you’d just slept for twelve hours?”

3. The throes of the Christmas season are upon us, and I have a history of being, oh…less than thoughtful with gifts. I am attempting to change that, but this means spending many an evening perusing the various hubs of Ottawa’s consumer culture looking for ways to redeem myself as a brother, boyfriend and son.

That is all I am currently willing to share with you, though I will do my absolute best to use this Christmas break in refuelling this blog’s energy. Mr Apple, thank you for the awakening, though I hope you will do me the pleasure of “forgetting” to send me my invitation to your annual endive roast and beat poetry reading.

Dearest Regards,

Nick

Self-Inflicted Cuts

It’s not common that my dreams recount tales of organized social self-harm networks, so it is with the spirit of novelty that I share the following trip into my brain’s darkest recesses, from not two night ago. (Well, actually, it was exactly two night ago.)

The scenario:

In the large courtyard of what appeared to be a Chinese monastery, I gathered with a group of young men. In reality, these men were my dear friends, normally the types who would shun self-inflicted pain (though I imagine that for the sake of the dream, they were humouring my subconscious). I won’t pretend to remember all the details, but the jist of the dream, I believe, can be conveyed in the following statement:

We each took turns slicing one another severely with extremely sharp paring knives.

Sort of dark for a guy who writes about bowel movements and rocketships, no? Well, my friends, I’m a deep swirling whirlpool.

Anyway, back to the cutting. Each person in the “club” was first given two cuts by others, and then had to self-administer the third (and worst one). What was interesting was experiencing it from the perspective of the “role” I was playing in my dream. I mean, as a member of this slicing society, I was obviously for this type of behaviour. And it was weird feeling the odd emotional coolness and detachment that went along with that. The other strange thing was actually feeling the sensation of each cut (as my ‘non-cutter’ brain imagined they should feel).  Allow me to go into further detail. In fact, consider this a thorough review of the three cuts I was required to do in my dream.  (Warning: maybe you shouldn’t read this if you actually cut yourself or are thinking about it) Here is:

A THOROUGH REVIEW OF THREE CHOICE CUTS FOR THE SELF-HARMER

Cut the First: Horizontally Across the Forehead

Performed about an inch below the hairline, this is far and away the most gentlemanly of cuts. With little muscular or nervous tissue between skin and bone, the knife slides gracefully across the brow with little pain, though it does provide a refreshing sting. I found that a main benefit of this cut was that, due to the thick skull bone, the depth options are minimal. Push as hard as you want—you ain’t getting’ through that skull with a paring knife. Whether self-inflicted or performed upon a consenting party, this entry-level cut rates top of the list.

Grade: A+

It Will Sap You of All Inspiration

You know, a lot of people pass around quotes in an office place. Forwarded emails, clever witticisms posted on the cork board, and touching pieces of wisdom designed to trick workers into thinking that the drudgery of office life somehow constitutes “a daring adventure.”

Clearly in the following case, however, one slipped under the radar. Get a load of it, if you can get through it before bedtime.

“You have to be willing sometimes to listen to some remarkable bad opinions. Because if you say to someone ‘That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard; get on out of here!’ then you’ll never get anything out of that person again, and you might as well have a puppet on a string or a robot.”

–John Bryan

Wow.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but pretty much the three dominating criteria for having a quote recorded, let alone passed along, are 1) brevity, 2) inspiration slash wit and 3) not being from a nobody. But damn.

This quote is the inspirational equivalent of polishing silverware. And it has as much wit as Ben Mulroney. Long, overly wordy, and drowning in its own message. Why not: “If you want to hear your ideas echoed all the time, then put your desk in a canyon.” Throw somebody’s name next to that, and you got yourself a quote.

Still stupid, I know, but at least it gives the same message in a fraction of the time. It’s basically getting so anything that is remotely forward-able will be forwarded just to shake things up. I propose the following for those of you who work in a similar place of business: begin writing your own inspirational quotes, throw fake names next to them, and post them on the bulletin board. And see if anyone notices.

Post-it notes, thumbtacks, pieces of Scotch tape: however you can get your message up there, do it. And you will see people applauding the inanity of it, remembering them for future reference and quoting them to their friends.

Worker 1: “Have you read any Sally Desglaw?”

Worker 2: “No.”

Worker 1: “She’s got this one great quote: ‘Live each day as if you’re eating a creamy tuna sandwich, and you love tuna.’ She’s got a good point. We shouldn’t always worry about ‘tomorrow’, now is the time to appreciate.”

Worker 2: “That’s fucking amazing. I’m writing it down.”

THE END

Mental Lapse

It's not that I've been particularly busy.

It's not that I've not experienced anything that I could weave into an interesting post.

It's not quite that we just passed a long weekend whose effects have lingered long into the week.

I guess I just want to make something really special and substantial, and I just need to sit down and do it. After all, you deserve no less than that.

For now, I've posted a picture of a kitten…

Isn't she a darling? Well, yes, let's move on.

This evening, I'm planning to go over to my parents' place and watch a soccer DVD with my dad. Back at Christmas, he received a big-ass 5 DVD set of soccer documentaries from this girl.

He's yet to touch them. What with the world cup coming up, and an impending trip to Italy in June, I'm sure there is much more impetus to watch it now than there was back when he was more focused on trying to keep his back hair from frosting in the winter chill than on Maradona's rise to glory and cocaine-laced fall from grace.

Going Down?

The elevators in my office building and I have a unique relationship. They open for me and I thank them by not tracking unpleasant odours into their encasements or spitting on their finely woven ruggery.

When I say they open for me, allow me to be clear. I do not press the call button.

Rather, they appear to merely sense my presence as I approach them, and are ready with a freshly opened door and an empty elevator car when I am within stepping distance. This is a great boon to me, as I am freed from the oppressive push/wait cycle that plagues my building's cohabitants.

While I had heretofore left the two elevators' services unsung, I can no longer avoid giving them due praise, particularly after Friday's exceptional aid.

My work day had come to an end. I packed up my satchel and, with usual weekend fervor, exited my office's suite 301 and strode casually but decidedly towards the elevators in my floor's foyer. The elevator on the right (picture above has been changed to protect the elevator's identity) presented me with a wonderfully open door devoid of any other passengers. As excited as I was to get the weekend started, I thought it would be prudent to empty my bladder first in the bathroom adjacent to the elevator door.

Taking the elevator's gesture for granted, I rejected its offering and entered the bathroom to relieve myself. The requisite amount of seconds later, I re-entered the foyer, and, not expecting a second gesture, approached the call button.

But no. With all the precision and timeliness of a Manhattan hotel's doorman, the elevator opened itself unbidden once more just as I stepped forward. Flabbergasted but honoured, I stepped into its quarters and rode the sweet shaft. I rode it to the ground.

Precisely the kind of service that will kick start a gentleman's weekend.

THE END

(The situations described above are in no way embellished, and to even think such a thing would be an affront to the elevator in question.)

So, you’ve noticed…

Well, gang, things have changed a little around here.  No big deal.  The main addition is the section to the left, where I’ve divided everything into tasty categories with alluring names like “sex” and “uncategorized“.

Oooo, that’s hot.  Of course, all the newest stuff will still appear right here.  Yes, just where you’re looking…no….a little higher…….exaaactly.

I will also be adding a very special section coming soon, though I have to discover the time for it first.  For now, look at this article, it’s one of my favourites, and tackles the extremely sensitive issue of multiple blade razors.

You’re all extremely lithe.

Me and Tony

So, last night I had a unique experience: I dreamed that Anthony Hopkins bashed up my car (it was up for debate whether it was by accident or not).

This is the scene: I was on a trip to the beautiful shores of Martha’s Vineyard (in the dream, it appeared to be for both business and personal reasons. Also, my brain kept forgetting where I was supposed to be and substituting equally shore-lined places) I was leaving the establishment I was working in at that time, which was a beautiful log-themed edifice perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I exited the premises to walk towards my blue ’87 Chevrolet Celebrity (my long-defunct but still deeply loved car). The parking lot was also stunningly overlooking the same ocean, and the driver door of my car was facing me. As I approached the car, the automobile parked next to it (on the far side of where I was) proceeded to back out at too sharp an angle and too quickly, crashing the front left corner of his car into mine, and then peeling off down the hill.

“Great,” I thought. I hadn’t gotten the driver’s licence number or anything. I crossed over to survey the damage. There was a definite dent, and the small window that, for some reason in my dream, was located near at about where one’s ass would be while sitting in the car, was smashed. I tried to estimate the repair costs. $200? Maybe if I was lucky. $500? Probably more like it.

Just when I was beginning to get depressed, a small stereotype of a Mexican woman runs up to me.

“Meester! Meester! That man broke your carro! Eet was Senor Hopkeens! El Actor!!”

Hopkins, huh? That British, knighted piece of smegma. What had I ever done to him, besides thoroughly enjoy his dry sensibilities and emotional delivery?

Oddly but luckily, the mexican woman had Sir Hopkin’s cell phone number. She let me back into the log cabin office to use the phone (apparently she was now the secretary there, my dream decided) I guess even in my dreams, I’m still cell-phone free.

I dialed his number and before long, he picked up with his hypnotizing British voice.

Him: “Good day.”

Me: “Hi, Anthony Hopkins?”

Him: “Yes, that’s correct”

Me: “Uh, my name’s Nick, and I’m in Cape Cod for vacation. I’m not sure if you realized but a few minutes ago, you pulled out of a parking lot and smashed the side of my car.”

Him: ….. “I see…”

Me: “Uh, yeah. You broke the small door window and there’s a dent in the metal.”

Him: “……My…that’s rather unfortunate.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Him:…

Me:…

Him:…

Me: “Uh, Mister Hopkins?”

Him: “Sir Hopkins.”

Me: “Pardon me?”

Him: “You address me as sir Hopkins”.

Me: “Oh sorry, sir. I figured since you’re a millionnaire and everything, maybe you could come back to Cape Canaveral and take a look at it, or at least give me your insurance info?”

Him: “I’m afraid that won’t be possible…”

At this point, I didn’t quite know how to continue, since he was just so calm through it all, so my dream interrupted the awkwardness by having the ground give way below me, and having me slide down the side of the cliff into the water where a large ship pulled its steam whistle. I think I woke up around there.

The point is: what’s the deal? I never had a problem with Anthony Hopkins, nor had I seen any of his movies in a while, so why am I dreaming about him? More importantly, why was he the antagonist in the dream? We normally get along pretty well when we’re together. The picture above was taken last fall when we were checking out Glasgow together. We got along just fine that trip (though I was starting to get sort of peeved about how he would never look at the camera!)

Still, weird.

A Brief Foray into the Human Spirit

I sit here on my brown couch attempting to ponder an event that just transpired. On my way home from the office, I had to stop off at the Greyhound shipping station and drop off a few packages. The Ottawa Bus Station has the worst parking system, not to mention entry/exit system of just about any place I’ve ever seen. For starters, it sits on a one-way street, which is annoying enough. Simply getting to the station from one side necessitates an out of the way merry-go-round. The treat is that, upon finally pulling into the Station area, visitors are greeted with a one lane, one-way parking lot as well…with about fifteen spots, all of which are on parking meters to boot. What this means is that not only can you not find a spot, you don’t even really have the liberty to wait for a spot to become available, because there’s a slew of cars stuck behind you waiting to do the same thing.

This is not the point of the story, however. The preceding statements serve only to illustrate how tensions can be high for motorists viting the Ottawa Bus Terminal. (As a side note, today the parking spots were surprisingly empty and I slipped into one nicely, not bothering to pay the meter. First time this has ever gone so smoothly for me.)

What is worth mentioning about this experience:

I exited my car and walked across the line of taxis that are perpetually poised by the station awaiting their tender, tender fares. As I did so, a middle-aged driver was also exiting his car, and began to yell at one of the taxis that had just pulled in.

“IF YOU CAN’T DRIVE, THEN STAY OFF THE ROAD!” the middle-aged man screamed.

The taxi driver proceeded to exit his cab to square off against the scarf-clad assailant. They began yelling about the details of who had cut whom off, and who was a bigger immigrant than whom, etc. I went into the building to drop off my packages, as they were pretty heavy.

I made my transaction with little delay and exited the parcel office, not surprised to find the two men still locked in debate; however, when I passed it became clear that something had changed.

Both men were smiling.

“OK, you have yourself a good day now!” the middle-aged man said.

“You too,” wished the cab-driver, before re-entering his car, which was still in the cab queue.

I, as well, proceeded to re-enter my car, somewhat dazed by this turn of events.

This is simply another card added to the already-stuffed Rolodex of mankind’s most inexplicable social traits. I mean, what sort of agreement could the two men have reached in such a short period of time? I know as well as anybody, there is no cure for road rage.

I won’t bastardize this beautiful scene with any of my meager interpretations. Simply enjoy that wonderful clamminess that glazes over our soul when we witness these snippets of interaction that add so much romance and mystery to the enigma of the human condition.

A Broad and Unfocused Hostility

A television commercial once told me that the Christmas Season is all about spreading comfort and joy. Having an infinite amount of trust for that sweet passive medium, I made it my life’s mission to attempt to spread the aforementioned emotions (though comfort is really more of a state, no?) to each and every sorry soul I met (except for the hideously ugly), not only during the winter season, but also during the other seasons, the names of which appear to have temporarily escaped me for the moment. Save your underground rants about the suffocating presence of advertising and your “I told you sos” for someone who still has a naive bright-eyed trust in the world: I learned it the hard way. There’s no turning back for me, oh no.

Leaving my job today, not two hours ago, on an already darkened Friday afternoon, I come across my snow covered car. Written in the snow on the side in large, unmistakeable letters was an excessively lewd and overused dictum, apparently directed toward yours truly. I’ll spare you the specifics; suffice it to say it rhymed with…uh…something wholly unoffensive like….uh….I don’t know…..”Huck Jew”. You figured it out yet? That’s right. Horrible, huh? It’s alright. Save your cringing for an episode of “Corner Gas”; I’m in no need of your sympathies, having since then already come to terms with the state of the world.

What did shock me was how uncomfortable it made me feel. I admit, I had never been on the business end of an automotive snow-message before, not even a good-natured “WASH ME” in the summertime, but I had certainly written one or two, even drawn a comically exaggerated phallus on more than one occasion. So why the shock? Perhaps it has something to do with what I like to call my “infinite likeability.” I’m a nice guy, I smile a lot, look into people’s eyes when I shake their hands: an all around class act. The idea that someone could feel such strong, however unispired, sentiments toward my car, or worse yet, me is disturbing in and of itself. But let’s be realistic. It was probably some neighbourhood tough who had no idea that such a great guy was even driving that ’98 Malibu.

The confusing bit is, I work in an office building in a decent neighbourhood. Also, the message was written on the side of my car facing the office door. It seems highly unlikely that a passing hoodlum, however motivated, would have crossed to the passenger side of my car when the driver’s side, the side I was guaranteed to see, was the one facing the road. This whittles down the options to someone in my building. Consider this disturbing option. This is a building made up of offices employing primarily middle-aged workers–the majority of which are women. The person who wrote that could have been your mother. Your mommy. Out for kicks, maybe showing off to a handsome male coworker you didn’t even know existed…. I imagine confident businesspeople saying goodbye to their coworkers and then scrambling to write obscenities on my car before going home to their meatloaf and evening Pimm’s. People with randomly-generated middle age faces, like this man:

I don’t really think there’s anything left to say.

Thank the almost reborn Lord that your weekend won’t be tainted with mental images of your mother giggling while scrawing the F-word on a stranger’s sandstone-coloured family sedan.