What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Friday, August 27, 2004

YES, THIS IS JUVENILE...

...but, damn, this website is funny. This may be a lovely piece of real estate but look out the window in the third photo down. Would the activities in the backyard raise or lower the resale value?

GREAT WORD OF MOUTH ADVERTISING

The Catholic News Service has already reviewed "A Dirty Shame," the upcoming new film from legendary filthmeister John Waters, starring -- I love this -- Tracey Ullman, Chris Isaak and Johnny "Jackass" Knoxville.

The Catholic group denounced the comedy as full of "almost non-stop rough, crude and profane language, full frontal nudity, sexual imagery, obscene gestures, scatological humor, casual portrayal and descriptions of deviant sexual practices, a glorification of freewheeling sex and some sacrilegious imagery."

Asked for his reaction, John Waters said, "I don't know if I can get a better review than that."

In an amusing interview, Chris Isaak said, "When I read the script, I said 'John, I'm only in 20 pages, and there's already masturbation, group sex, nude dancing.' I said, 'Is this gonna be tastefully done?' He said 'No.'"

And the final punchline to this little tale? Waters' sleazy little movie is one of the Gala evening premieres at this year's Toronto International Film Festival. I love my country!

Labels: Trawna

DON'T YOU THINK?

Investigating Sugstan Anthony Brookes, the gunman from Tuesday's hostage-taking, the police found a cassette tape of rantings about his ex-wife (the woman he shot at in the first place) and how her restraining order and divorce proceedings "drove" him to the crime.

It's sad how common domestic violence seems yet how uncomfortable we are in discussing it until it boils over into something murderous. The awful joke in all this, too, is that the gunman was supposed to be in an anger management class that day.

WHAT DO THE PEOPLE DESERVE?

In today's Globe and Mail, the story is that Ralph Klein is only willing to grant the three-day federal/provincial conference on health care one day of his time.

Reacting to yet another display of political grandstanding from Klein, PM Paul Martin was predictably huffy. "I think health care certainly is worth three days," the Prime Minister said. "I think it's worth three weeks. I think it's worth three months, for however long it takes to find a solution."

And what exactly IS on the Alberta premier's busy agenda that he can't sit down to discuss our nation's most pressing concern? A vacation. "I deserve a holiday and so count me out or phone me," he said. That's great. Go have another cocktail, Ralph.

WHAT A WAY TO START THE DAY

Everyone here's a bit freaked out by the hostage situation at Union Station this morning. A man shot a woman in the TD Centre food court then fled from police into the station, where he took a hostage. The gunman was described as "agitated and moving erratically" which made me wonder how he differed from anyone else at Union Station on a Tuesday morning.

The standoff lasted about half an hour until a police sniper shot him in the head. The hostage is fine but there's no word yet on the first victim in hospital.

Ugh. Toronto has always felt so safe for a city of three million so it's especially unnerving when something like this happens.

Not to mention coming on the heels of a bizarre home invasion yesterday, in which a 15-year-old boy crashed into a family's home in broad daylight with a gun. He pistol-whipped their 16-year-old daughter before stealing their Sony Playstation video game console. He attacked an entire family for a video game console. If it wasn't so ugly, it'd make a terrific commercial.

Fortunately, events like these are still few but less far between so, while I'm personally not pushing any panic buttons just yet, there's still a feeling of unease that's going to take a long period of calm and safety to erase. Is that possible?

Labels: Trawna

"HE CAN FIND ANOTHER WAY TO ADVERTISE HIMSELF"

Following on from Mandy Moore's betrayal, George W. can now add the Iraq Olympic Men's Football team to his 'enemies list' (you know, the one with Michael Moore and the Dixie Chicks on it). His new ad campaign, being shown in Europe, shows pictures of the Afghan and Iraqi flags and says, "At this Olympics there will be two more free nations - and two fewer terrorist regimes". The Iraqi players had the obvious reaction.

ARE YOU NOW, OR HAVE YOU EVER BEEN...

I'm chuckling over this item in the news today on The Internet Movie Database:

Singer and actress Mandy Moore is furious at being "outed" as a secret Republican in the new issue of America's Details magazine. The publication's upcoming September edition lists Adam Sandler, Freddie Prinze Jr., Jessica Simpson, Shannen Doherty and Moore as silent supporters of current US President George W. Bush who don't join the campaign trail and make their political views known, unlike loud and proud Democrats Ben Affleck and Barbra Streisand. However, the A Walk To Remember beauty has angrily denied she supports Bush and his party. Her publicist tells American website Pagesix.Com, "Mandy is not, nor has she ever been, a Republican."

Labels: George W Bush

SCREAMING

I suppose I should be caring more about the Olympics and Canada's dismal showing (the athletes, media, government and public rightly blame the athletes, media, government and public) but I'm grief-stricken over 'The Scream.'

The bastards stole it. Right out of the museum in the daytime. And this is the second time it's been stolen, following an unsuccessful fence ten years ago. It's like reading about a missing child -- you just feel so helpless.

Where's our real-world Indiana Jones? We need someone to grab the new 'owner' by the collar and snarl, "It belongs in a museum!"

WE JUST LOVE THOSE MOVIES

Working in a building full of film and computer people has certainly been fun so far. One guy, for instance, has taken it upon himself to compile a 'top ten' film list from everyone so he can collate them into one company-wide ranking.

Geek.

It's been great seeing everyone's choices (less great seeing them tear each other's choices apart but that's part of it all). Just for the record, here's what I sent out:

Ouch, Aleksi, this was painful!

10 favourites:

Blue Velvet
Casablanca
Goodfellas
Gods and Monsters
Brazil
Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Sunset Boulevard
The Royal Tenenbaums
A Fish Called Wanda
The Third Man

and a few movies I love that didn't make the cut:

All About Eve
Proof (1991)
Amelie
The Hours
The Conversation
Pee Wee's Big Adventure
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

IS DUBYA REALLY SO BAD?

Following on from yesterday's post, another gem courtesy of Michael Moore's site. For any fair-minded liberal or small-'c'-conservative who wonders why I go on about George W. Bush as though he were the Anti-Christ, here's the definitive article:

The Case Against George W. Bush, by Ron Reagan Jr.

Labels: George W Bush

GOD BLESS YOU, MR. VONNEGUT

As the US lurches perilously closer to re-electing You Know Who in November, it's a thrill to see the legendary Kurt Vonnegut weigh in with what sounds disturbingly like a eulogy for America, himself, or both.

His unique combination of quirky humour and focused anger is needed now more than ever and, when he says, "I now am tempted to give up on people," somehow I can't quite believe him.

MORNING HAS BROKEN

It's quiet so far. I got a cup of tea, took a quick look at the Globe and Mail and dealt with three minor problems already. As opposed to working retail, this gentle easing into one's day is something I could really enjoy -- provided I could skip what led up to it.

I've discovered -- far too late -- the secret of Toronto's famous public 'chilliness'. It's the subway, that crumbling backbone of our underfunded transit system. Starting the day pressed up against sweaty, irritated strangers in a rattling metal box can only lead to a day-long mood that is frosty at best.

How do people do it every morning? I don't mind the subway or streetcars later in the day, when I'm better prepared, but to tackle leaving the house at 7:30 in the morning and squeezing into one of these contraptions without any coffee in my system is harder work than I'd imagined.

So let's be a little more patient with grumpy T.O. types -- I now know what they're going through.

THE RECORD SHOWS I TOOK THE BLOWS

It's a strange thing to leave a group of people you work with when you know that you'll still be seeing them again sometime soon. I shopped at Sunrise before I worked there and I'll shop there again. I enjoyed hanging out at the pub occasionally before I worked there and I'll enjoy hanging out there again. So it's not really goodbye.

But it sure feels like goodbye and feels great, especially after Friday night. After a relatively ordinary evening, the clock struck 1 am and it suddenly seemed as though every drunken freak in the city decided to come and throw me a farewell party.

There were the two British girls in the Disney cruise ship gang (does Goofy know you're all hanging out in a gay bar?) who smuggled a mickey(!) of booze into the pub. We kicked them out but I got into a shouting match with an older guy in their party over my lack of inclination to allow the rest of them to enter. Again, I heard the use of my favourite new phrase, "What's the big deal?" It went on for what felt like forever.

No sooner had all that been settled when a young man on wobbly legs approached the stairs and refused to accept that he would not be allowed in. "I've only had TWO drinks!" he screamed at me, his pupils massive. "Two very strong drinks, I'm afraid," I told him. He kept trying to argue but made less and less sense.

I told him to talk to my coworker on the other door, figuring a 'no' from Lloyd might end this. Instead, he started the same routine on him and I felt guilty for inflicting him on my colleague.
"He won't tell me what I...might have done to...not go in..." he wailed to Lloyd.
"I already told you four times!" I griped, "You're drunk!"
He looked at me as though he didn't know the word.
"Drunk!" I yelled.
"In what sense?" he asked, which made me laugh.
"In the classic sense!" I said, leading him to hold up a wavering index finger at me and say, "But what is your...definition of this...classic sense, eh?"
"What are you -- Bill Clinton?" I said, "Go home!"
"I've only had three drinks!"
"You said two before -- how many was it, really?"

This went on for quite some time, though mostly in silence after that exchange. I would just look the other way whenever he tried to start up again and soon, he began to cry, openly weeping in the street. "I'm going to miss this like I miss Andrew Dice Clay's career," I said to a friend who stopped by.

The final straw was a tall, Caribbean crack-head who tried to dash past me. I told him he couldn't come in and he seemed to obey, until turning to hop up the steps to the other door. "Don't let him in," I called to Lloyd and the guy turned to me with an angry expression on his face. "It's the same place," I said, "and you're not coming in."
"You're an asshole!," he screamed.
"Yeah, yeah, heard it before," I said, "just go home."
"No, no!" he yelled, holding up -- yes, again -- his index finger in my face, "You are a fucking asshole!"
"Get that finger out of my face before you lose it," I said, getting really, really irritated. He was a tall guy so I hopped up on the bottom step to put me at eye-level. "Get out of here."
He stepped back and pursed his lips, as if to spit at me, and I said, "Don't even think abo-"
He spat a huge blob of saliva at me, hitting my sleeve, and I was horrified.
"Get the fuck out of here right now, you piece of filth!" I yelled.
He started removing a shoe and, again, I found myself suddenly wanting to laugh.
"What -- you're going to throw a shoe at me? Who throws a shoe? I mean, honestly!"
He didn't get the reference but slipped the shoe back onto his foot. I continued to point at him and tell him to get lost.

My friend Robert had stopped by and witnessed this particular exchange. "Wow," he said, "I can't believe you overreacted like that." I couldn't believe what I'd heard. "He spit at me," I said. Robert just gave me the these-things-happen shrug. Well, not to me, not any more. As they say on the sitcoms, I am SO done.

Tomorrow's the first day of the new job. I'm excited to be there, nervous about screwing something up, but comforted by the knowledge that under no circumstances will I be spat upon.

Labels: friends

FORGIVE ME WHILE I GEEK-OUT...

...but I've got to toss out a plug for a comic book. Joss Whedon, the writer of "Toy Story" and creator of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," has signed on for a 12-issue run on "Astonishing X-Men" and -- three issues in -- the results are fantastic.

Like his TV work, "Astonishing X-Men" is fast-paced, witty and thoughtful. The plot concerns a Indian geneticist named Dr. Kavita Rao whose announcement of a cure for mutation creates a crisis of faith for the X-Men's blue-furred Beast who's about to risk everything to be 'normal'. Emma Frost and Wolverine's belief that the scientist should be assassinated for the good of mutantkind is hotly contested by young Kitty Pryde but Scott Summers might agree after the emotional discovery that Dr. Rao has experimented on the body of dead teammate Jean Grey. And there's still nine issues to go.

Asked in a website interview, why he signed on to the book while busy with his film version of "Firefly," Whedon says,

You come to the X-Men, that's a grave responsibility where I come from...I grew up with them as much as I can I say I've grown up. The idea that I was going to spend a year telling them what to say and do made me just about as happy as any geek has ever been. I did it for the happiness.

Labels: comic books

IF THE TERRORISTS WIN, SO DO I

My ever-vigilant friend James A. spotted this conspiracy theory in the Weekly World News: Al Qaeda has invented a bomb to target American men:

The Gay Bomb will detonate the instant a heterosexual male steps on one of the mines, releasing potent waves of the female hormone estrogen into the air. Within hours, heterosexual men will experience terrible urges like: "I'm dying to make out with my buddy in the next cubicle," and "I want a divorce from the witch I married," and "I wonder if I should redecorate the living room."

Labels: friends

I LOVE THAT CRAZY KOOK!

Women's magazine Jane is just plain strange.
Jane's "Celebrity Spiritual Report" column is highly strange.
The May 2004 column by David Lynch on transcendental meditation is off the charts.

Yet, as always, Lynch is so forthright, so open and so enthusiastic that you just can't help but go along with him. As he was quoted in a New York Post article, "I'm going all out for this...It's kind of important to have peace on earth."

'Kind of important'...I just love this guy!

CONFIDENTIALLY...

I dropped off the signed contract at CORE this morning and got to check out some of their work. Really nice stuff, except that I can't discuss any of it. The contract featured a confidentiality clause that I found eerie. Confidentially has never been a strong suit of mine!

Nevertheless, I'll keep my mouth as shut as possible about the actual work, except to say that the powers-that-be have signed me up for a basic animation class next Thursday. My job will not involve going anywhere near the art department but they want me to get a feel for what they (we!) do and I feel quite touched by the gesture.

Shutting up now...

TOYS WERE THEM

Another one of those grimly amusing business stories in the news today, this time concerning Toys R Us, once the largest retailer of, erm, toys.

Seems that the giant company has been taking a beating on prices in recent years by all those bigger giant companies like Wal-Mart and Costco. Even FAO Schwartz had already declared bankruptcy. Toys R Us has a subdivision called Babies R Us that has been doing better financially so news has it that the company may focus there and pull out of selling toys altogether.

At this rate, Wal-Mart is well on its way to inheriting the slogan of the villainous Japanese conglomerate Zik-Zak from the (once?) futuristic 80's TV show "Max Headroom":
"Zik-Zak -- we make everything you need and you need everything we make."

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A FORTNIGHT MAKES

The events of Wednesday, July 28th were -- quite frankly -- too distressing to write about (this, of course, means they were the only things worth writing about, but hey...) so I've obviously steered clear of my usual ramblings here.

I'm just so tired of whining all the time.

A couple weeks later, however, I've had both time to decompress and -- surprisingly -- enjoy a major transformation. So, in short, we've got some catching up to do:

(the very long) TOPIC #1: THE UNAWARE SCORPION

My mother knew I was wanting to visit the fine city of Boston at some point so, taking the lead as she's want to do, she talked me into taking a road trip with her. With our birthdays only four days apart, a long weekend of sightseeing and clam chowdah seemed ideal for both of us, so I was cautiously optimistic (I frequently wish I could approach the world with less caution and more optimism but Jane Jacobs titled her new book "Dark Age Ahead" so there you go). I began to look forward to it, to joke about staying long enough to pick up the accent and legitimately yell, "Mah!! Why'd you pahk the cah so fah!"

My friends were surprised. I'd gone without speaking to my mother for much of the nineties after I'd had most of my possessions stolen by a drug dealer she owed money to (as a way of discovering your parent's drug abuse problem, I don't recommend it).

As I approached and passed my thirty mark, however, I've become more understanding of the kind of stresses my mother must have been under -- especially as a young single parent of two, which I've no experience with -- and I've tried to forgive. I saw this road trip as a fun way for us to bond as adults, to show her life on my turf for once, and to paint over painful old memories with friendly new ones.

Idiot.

Right from the start, there were warning signs, notably a refusal to look into hotels or any sort of itinery. "Let's just get in the car and hit the road!" she'd say, making me feel like Jack Kerouac's guidance counsellor. She couldn't seem to understand why I didn't seem more excited by the possibility of sleeping in the car. "It's a car" was all I could say.

We crossed the border on the new Toronto-Rochester ferry, a massive vessel with a smooth two-hour ride, spacious seating and tables, two big-screen-TV-rooms for movies, a small duty-free shop, a bar and a cafeteria counter. Even getting the car in and out wasn't much of a fuss. Highly recommended.

Everything was lovely until we reached the border and Mom started chatting up the border guards, who looked at her with deep suspicion. In retrospect, Boston was obviously the problem. It just so happened that our trip coincided with the Democratic National Convention (those with long political memories will recall how the 1968 gathering in Chicago ended in riots). The guard asked her why we were going to Boston and Mom airily said, "Oh, we're just going to drive around up the coast for a while." This was all true, of course, but way too vague for the guy in black and he told us to drive over to the side checkpoint.

Mom was confused. "What's the big deal?" she said, "I never get pulled over."
"These guys are paranoid right now," I said, "You think you can charm with your dumb blonde routine but it doesn't work on them." We were made to sit in a long, drab waiting room with black-clad, billy-club-toting officers milling around behind service counters with plexiglass windows. We sat next to a Muslim woman grimly watching her husband and teenage son in the parking lot pulling everything out of their car for one of the guards. "They let everyone through but us," she announced to us, "I don't know why."
"Well, I've got a theory," I said, "but I think you already know what it is."
She looked me in the eye and nodded, "Wrong colour."

My mother was finally called up in front of the counter and asked all the usual questions. My passport and her ID had already been taken from us. I heard the guard ask her about previous convictions.
"There was some narcotics stuff about fifteen years ago," she said.
"Well, that alone would keep you out of the country," the guard said, "but what happened in 2001?"
She looked at him blankly and I began to despair. "I don't know," she finally said.
"You don't know?" the guard said, presumably wondering how someone could forget a criminal conviction from three years ago, "There was a probation?"
"Oh," my mother sighed, realization settling in, "yes, yes there was something I was pardoned for."
Her voice was getting quieter but I'd lost interest in listening further, anyway. The last thing I heard was her pointing out to the guard that today was indeed her birthday and the guard agreeing that, yes, this did suck. Would this, I wondered, be considered sad or pathetic?

She came over and slumped into the chair beside me and said, "They're not letting us in."
"I figured," I said, teeth clenched, "but why?"
"Something stupid," she replied. She let out a long sigh and said, "The past always comes back to haunt you."
"What?" I said, feeling simultaneously sorry for her and irritated by her secrecy, like a dentist struggling to pull a tooth. She finally explained that, back in 2000, a 'booster' friend of hers had been caught shoplifting and she tried to take the rap for him.
"What did he steal?" I asked.
"Oh, just a couple of steaks."
"Steaks?"
"Filet mignon."
"Why?"
"He wanted to throw a party for me, to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Well, it was the night before I went into rehab."
"Again?"
"Yes."
In my struggle to comprehend this whole new angle I'd never heard before, I stumbled into this particular story's 'money line':
"So...they're not letting us into the country because you shoplifted meat?"
"Well, I didn't shoplift it."
I could feel the veins in my head throb.

In my eternal spirit of turning lemons into lemonade, I tried to think of reframing our trip along Canadian lines. It's Pride Weekend in Montreal, I thought -- I've done it before but at least I know it'll be fun. I'm sure she'll enjoy it. I was thinking all this while Mom was getting, yes, fingerprinted in anticipation of her later application for a guest visa -- the one that takes over six months and denied a friend of mine from having one of his parents attend his wedding. Mom showed me the form that let her know she could be considered for a brief visit following the payment of $250 US and -- my favourite bit -- an additional $70 US for the fingerprinting fee. I tend to think of America the way I do China: love the people, loathe their governments.

On the up side, we were escorted back to the ferry and didn't have to pay for the return trip -- score! Things were predictably tense so I suggested we take in the movie, "Down with Love." Such camp silliness seemed like the ideal low-thought diversion but Mom was out of her seat within fifteen minutes. "I'm going back to the duty-free," she said, "I'm going to get that perfume I saw. It's my birthday and I deserve a treat."
"Can't argue with that," I said to her back.

I felt terrible for her, for this awful thing to happen on her birthday, for the guilt I presumed she must be feeling, for the way she constantly steps on the mines she's laid before. But I also felt that horrible impotent rage, the helplessness that comes from everything you want snatched from you through no fault of your own. I really wanted to see Boston and Montreal didn't feel like much of a consolation prize.

At Canadian Customs, I grit my teeth at the process repeating itself. The Canadian guards were understandably curious as to why the Americans rejected us and made us drive over to the side and wait. The Canadian guards lacked all the paramilitary accoutrements of their US counterparts but seemed to make up for it by an increase in swagger and condescension.

We were given cards to fill out, listing what we had purchased at the duty free. "Well," I said to my mother with the guards right by us, "there's the two bottles of liquor we purchased, one allowed for each of us." This was my only attempt at a joke -- both bottles were for her. "And the perfume--" She suddenly waved her hand over the form, shaking her head quickly.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, but she shushed me as loudly as she dared.
I glared at her and handed her the form as we were led to a bench beside the car. We sat in silence while two guards searched through it, until we were finally asked to walk over to a small room.

Inside, we gave the bottles to a man in his sixties who clearly disliked the computer screen he tapped information into. He explained that, because we never actually entered the other country, we had to pay duty on the bottles. Standard Ontario tax mark-up would add another $20 dollars to what we'd already paid. Even I jumped at that one, announcing, "That'll make each bottle cost over $40!" The man just shrugged in a vaguely sympathetic way and I was irritated at feeling myself growing sorry for my mother once more.

The man began to look up info on the second bottle but had obvious difficulty. "Are you having fun learning your job?" my mother said. My eyes widened in horror as I fought to keep a poker face at that one. My man turned to her and said, "Are you being facetious with me, sir?" in a tone that brought the temperature down several degrees. "No, no," she stammered, and went on to explain how much she hated computers and respected anyone who could deal with them. I could see him soften and it was, on the whole, a very nice save but a save nevertheless. He eventually decided to only charge for one bottle for liquor, explaining that -- like a traffic cop -- he had a certain amount of leeway he could exercise. We were both geniunely grateful and I shook his hand, saying, "Thank you for being the first human being we've encountered this afternoon."

In an effort to salvage the day, I offered to take Mom out for dinner. After all, I said, "I've got a pocket full of Yankee money and it's still your birthday." The whole time, however, I was fully conscious of my desire to suppress my bad feelings and make nice, and I felt cowardly, phony and irritated by myself. I especially noticed it as we pulled into the parking lot while Mom was explaining that, even with the duty paid on the one bottle, she'd still saved about seven or eight dollars. "Yeah, because that's the happy ending I was waiting for," I sniped with a more venomous tone than I'd expected. She didn't notice.

It all came to a head over dinner. As she prattled on as though nothing had happened, I jumped in and said, "Just explain to me the perfume thing."
"What do you mean?"
"After not being allowed into the US, after that horrible scene with the customs guards, you still decide to smuggle something -- why?"
"You saw those charges -- I would've had to pay forty or fifty bucks!"
"And did it never occur to you how it would feel -- after having our vacation ruined -- to sit and watch them tear apart the car while knowing that you'd hidden something?"
She just looked at me with a blank expression.
"Did it not occur to you what an extra level of stress that would add to an already horrible day?" In the middle of a restaurant, I was approaching a courtroom-drama volume.
"What do you want me to say? I did what I had to do. I'm tired of apologizing for the past."
"I don't care about the past!" I snapped, "I care about the present! I want you to stop! Just stop!"
Again, she just looked at me, only now with shining, wet eyes. Once again, I was the monster who just doesn't understand her pain. She told me that it was clear I was still very angry towards me and that, for both our sakes, I would have to "let go of that anger." She's completely right, of course, but once again, as always, it's me who does the work.

I went to see my friend James that night, knowing that there was no way I could carry on with this trip yet knowing that calling it off would do permanent damage to an already corroded relationship. He was appalled on my behalf, thankfully, and wisely pointed out that it is possible to love one's parents while staying far, far, safely away from them.

I thought later about that old parable of the scorpion and the frog:
The scorpion wanted to cross a river but couldn't swim. He asked a frog that was sitting nearby if he would take him across the river on his back. The frog refused and said, "I mustn't, because you will sting me."
The scorpion replied, "It would be foolish for me to sting you because then we would both drown."
The frog saw the logic in the scorpion's words, and agreed to carry him across, but when they were halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog. The stunned frog asked, "Why did you sting me? Now we will both die!"
The scorpion replied, "I'm a scorpion...it's in my nature."

Fair enough, I suppose, but what do you with someone who doesn't know they're a scorpion? One who never connects past actions with present consequences? Do you hate them? Help them and be stung? Or simply hide from them?

My mother and I have talked since then -- simple, meaningless chatter. I wait for more, demand more in fact, but know I won't get it. I don't know what the next step will be but one won't be coming for some time. I've bigger things to concern myself with...

TOPIC #2: PUTTING DOWN ROOTS

Now with no vacation and a pocketful of vacation money, I decided to take care of me for once. For months now, I've lived in an unfinished apartment, hedging my bets on the possible vacancy of a cheaper unit in the building. I like my apartment -- it's cheap, it's cozy, it's conveniently located, and I've put a lot of love and work into making it a comfortable place to be. Or at least, just the living room and bathroom -- the bedroom's an unfinished disaster, waiting on a decision from me to leave or stay.

Ultimately, however, I knew that -- for better or worse -- money is and never has been my defining concern. After a day and a half or moping around the city in bookstores and cafes, trying to cheer up, I clenched my jaw and headed off to drop a couple hundred bucks at Canadian Tire and Ikea. I spent most of my holiday weekend painting and putting together furniture.

Obviously, I also dropped a chunk of cash on DVDs -- a box set of "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine." Smirk if you will but, along with a handful of "Next Generation" episodes and two or three of the movies, "Deep Space Nine" is the only "Star Trek" that matters. Besides, it was my birthday and I deserved a treat.

A week later, my apartment is still woefully junky -- there's still a lot of work to do -- but my bedroom now has bookcases and an office set-up, a comfortable bed and vibrant brick-red walls. It's a happy place and I've decided to stay.

TOPIC #3: WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

It came out of nowhere on a Monday -- a mention of a possible job in the company my friend Jeff works for.
Tuesday morning, I delivered a new resume and met with the woman in charge.
Wednesday morning, I'd been asked back for a second interview with the human resources department.
Thursday morning, they were calling my references.
Thursday afternoon, I'd been hired.
Friday morning, I was training with the outgoing employee.
Friday afternoon, I remembered to give the record store and the pub a week's notice, since I have to start the new job next Monday.
Each of these nights, I was working at the pub until three in the morning. My head's still spinning.

Now, back on earth, I must admit it's a gamble. It's a one-year contract doing one of those office monkey sort of jobs -- nothing glamourous, don't you worry -- but the environment is great, the people friendly and talented, the pay exactly what I'm making now but with half the hours. It's a win all around and I still can't believe my good fortune.

But maybe that's what a lot of this is about: good luck vs. bad luck. I feel lucky but shouldn't because it's important to remember that no one's hiring me out of charity. I've earned this job because I'm a good guy with a quick mind and people recognize that. If I'm going to continue being stung by scorpions, it'll be because people know that, despite everything, I'm the guy who still wants to help them across the river and it's time to start.

Two weeks later, things are suddenly better.

Labels: Canada, family, friends, introspective, Trawna, working girl