Opinions?!?!? More Opinions here!

I have loads and loads of opinions on a rapidly growing list of topics. And it seems that others are at least vaguely interested in hearing about them, or at least until their bus comes or they need to flee. I quite enjoy their fleeing and have some opinions on it as well, but that will have to wait until a future date. The opinions you are about to read are mine and mine alone - hands off! No one is paying me to think these things and I've asked a lot of people! Not even a nickel! Anyways, thanks for asking, I love to share, hope these don't cause you to lose any sleep, and if they do, less then you are alreayd losing. I hope you enjoy!

My take on...


...defrosting freezers: Defrosting freezers is not my favourite task, nor is it my least favourite. In order to help me figure out exactly where it ranks in my hierarchy of tasks, I spent hours ranking and re-ranking all tasks using a complicated 25-point scale using 15 different criteria. It turns out, defrosting freezers is my 45th favourite task out of 75 household tasks. Not bad - the result seems mostly accurate. So, it did take me hours upon hours determining the criteria and the relative weighting of the different items involved and the outcome was good, yet something about this just didn't satisfy me. I guess I think that if I put a little more effort in defrosting freezers could move up the rankings and maybe even crack the top 30. So, with this new-found motivation in hand (yes, I did write the motivational words down and am currently holding them in my left hand) I have decided to attack the freezer with a new found gusto and passion that I had previously reserved for vacuuming and removing drier lint. Let's see what else do I have to say about defrosting freezers...as I child I often had a dream where I mysteriously became completely filled with an icy buildup and just when it seemed that all hope was lost and I was done for, a fairy godmother, in the shape of my family's stand-alone freezer, came out of nowhere in the blink of an eye (a disorder I struggled with as a child and after seeing specialist after specialist found that a homemade concoction of super glue, tofu and cat hair miraculously cured) and defrosted me. That fairy "freezer" and I grew quite close in these dreams and spent so much amazing time together floating through the sky, buying and storing ice cream, reciting poetry (mostly coming from me, she was a freezer after all). Initially my parents were quite supportive of my growing love of dreaming, and even of my odd fixation with our freezer (at one point my entire room was filled with pieces of "freezer" art that, while quite good for a boy of 10, started to raise eyebrows among our family friends (although with some it was hard to tell from a distance if they were raised as their eyebrows were quite blond and fair). My parents tried hard not to worry but overtime they grew quite concerned, especially when I stopped seeing my friends and I had quit baseball and violin practice (funny story - I only signed up for violin practice as a means to see this pretty girl from school who was also studying violin and my parents only signed me up for lessons at the same time as this pretty girl as a means to expose me to violins hoping that when it came time to choose, I would choose the violin as it would never hit puberty and fall in love with the star quarterback only to later on recognize and grow enamoured with my non-traditional good looks only to decide to disappear on a trip to get in touch with her inner self returning unannounced months later with dreadlocks and a new cat, wearing a sari and going by a new, completely unpronounceable 5 syllable name. Little did my parents nor I know at the time, but we were both mistaken as the girl was actually a violin all along and thus, never went through puberty at all. I have had sort of a thing for string instruments ever since) and started demanding to return to the fairy freezer in my dreams - saying things like "I love her, the freezer, I love her", "only she can melt the ice inside me" and "only with her, in my dreams, do I feel truly awake, and yes, I do understand that that makes little to no sense at all, as I am aware I only communicate with her in my dreams and I am not awake when that is happening and that communication with a freezer does sound a bit off-the-wall or actually, who am I kidding, completely off-the-wall but that is the way it is with love sometimes especially first love and even more so when that first love takes place in a dream between a boy and an appliance that doesn't usually have thoughts or feelings or sentience in almost any one else's fantasies or at least not ones that I've been exposed to and yes, I've been meaning to expose myself to a wider-variety of fantasies, but I've been busy" (I was saying that ALL the time - which was tough - it took a few days to write it, a few more days to rehearse and then a few more days of work with an acting coach I hired to help with the delivery). In the end, my parents "cured" me by tricking me into thinking we were going on vacation to Mexico and instead they trapped me inside a large garbage bag (not a big surprise as that was how we left the house on a daily basis until I was 15), threw me in the trunk (I started to get a little suspicious at this point as my mother only put things in the trunk that needed to see a therapist - me, her friend Hilda...and that's about it to this point), and brought me to this amazing doctor who not only helped me get over my love of escaping to a dream to be with a freezer but also paid me to defrost her freezer repeatedly over a period of 6 months sort of like a desentization exercise that worked, but only too well as I started dreaming constantly about defrosting freezers at my therapist home for little to no financial gain but with a new-found mental clarity that really did wonders for my job performance, if I do say so myself.

...desks: I am sitting at a desk right now and spend a good portion of my day sitting in front of them. Therefore, you would think I had a particular affinity towards them considering my proximity. You could not be further from the truth and I have to question why you are spending any time thinking about this. It just seems odd and a bit worrisome - what goes on between the desks in my life and me is my business and not yours. That's right - it is my failing, struggling, about-to-go-bankrupt-causing-me-to-sell-my-collection-of-rare-stamp-albums-that-are-completely-empty-of-stamps-but-the-albums-wow-those-amazing-albums business of me sitting behind a desk (I am a bit confused where to sit - behind the desk? in front of the desk? under the desk? and that confusion could be a major part of the problem with the business in both the first place and every place after that as well). Why I thought anyone would pay me money to solely sit at a desk I don't know. I think it comes from my childhood when the sound on the TV was broken and I used to watch this show where a bunch of people worked in an office and spent most of their time sitting at desks and, since I couldn't hear anything, and was distracted with my game where the Barbies enslave the action figures and force them to forge for wild vegetables while also operating a fully functional organic dairy farm, I figured that all these characters did for work was sit behind a desk and get paid. Oh, how I fantasized that one day I could do that too and I tried and aside from a few donations from friends who were looking for creative ways to write-off medium amounts of money for tax purposes (they tried to say that giving me money for my business was akin to donating money to charity in that I was clearly in need of some help and that it felt like giving money to charity) I made nothing because, as I came to realize over time, why would I. I was just sitting at a desk and pushing papers around and typing aimlessly on the keyboard (you can keep your snide and derisive comments about how that is essentially all I am doing right now as I write this to yourself, unless they are well written and then please send them my way as I love a good snippet of snide and derisive non-fiction from time to time unless it is about me, but if it is well written as surmised, then I am willing to make an exception especially if you consider donating to my charity...I mean business. It sort of falls in a gray area) day-after-day and wondering when the money would start pouring in (I don't quite understand how owners pay employees - I think based on the expression, that money is somehow poured possibly from an extra-large pitcher of sorts or possibly pouring is an analogy that I am feigning understanding of mostly to increase my usage of the word feigning and, if it is only an analogy, then in that case I hope you are enjoying my pouring these words into your brain while also pouring some tea into my mouth and contemplating pouring myself into bed early tonight as I am tired (let's hope I'm not so tired that I pour the wrong thing into the wrong place or else it will be quite hard to explain to my wife why the pillows smell of tea and my blog is in my mouth and I am attempting to act out a scene where I pour my whole body onto your brain which should be a comedy but might play more as a melodrama.

...elections: Elections are a shiny example of the wonderful democratic society in which we live and they make me as proud as shiny examples of wonderful things ever do, but I just can't shake the negative feelings and sour after-tastes that elections always bring and leave me with. I guess it all started with the time I ran for student council president. I thought I had put together an air-tight campaign complete with a detailed advertising campaign complete with colourful posters; late-night, campy public access television ads; and easily-memorizable and catchy slogans. I was running on a platform of progressive and aggressive change that was carved from a singular oak tree that used to stand in my neighbour's yard. In my now-infamous election speech I promised more palatable school lunches that addressed not only our nutritional needs but also satisfied as many of our five senses as was affordable under a limited budget, a weekly, no-holds-barred, take-no-or-as-few-victims-as-possible Q & A with the principal where the real questions could be asked and the truth would be revealed despite how much the truth could potentially damage reputations and school mascots, a much-needed fresh coat of paint that would give the school the illusion of two dimensions, and a highly-calculated and incremental increase in school spirit (as too much all at once can cause nausea.) Of course, I lost. My adversary was an attractive young man who not only could barely string three words together but considered himself lucky when those three words just happened to actually make sense when spoken together. No, he didn't win based on eloquence, he won because he looked good in a tight shirt (in a moment of desperation while campaigning I too went down "the tight shirt road" and only ended up scaring and disgustingly fellow classmates and teachers alike), had an award-winning smile with a set of dimples I briefly contemplated having bronzed and had a unique charm that was hard to put a finger on as it was confounding how it actually worked (my money was on some form of incidental hypnotism). As much as I wanted to believe that the best candidate should win, I just had to face that I could add my name to an infinite list of those well-meaning, better candidates who came up short in a popularity contest and, while annoyed, I also found a way to respect my opponent mostly as a result of an evening of chocolate long johns. In the end, the school didn't get the president that would have run the council in the most fiscally responsible way, but instead they got the one they needed at this point in time: an overly-attractive (verging on an embarrassment of riches), caveman-like (he lived briefly I a cave for reasons that have never become obvious to anyone), and tight-shirt wearing president who inspired all of us in ways that were both unpredictable and often dangerous both internally and psychologically. But it is true what they say, we should be so happy we have the right and power to choose our elected officials and that a dictatorship would always be infinitely worse unless I was the dictator. I know it is controversial to say, but I am supremely confident that I would be a spectacularly benevolent dictator who would not knowingly abuse my power and would not only allow my subjects the freedom of expression and to gather but they would also have a strictly enforced casual Friday once a month.

...dew: Say what now? Dew? You mean the moisture in the morning? How do I state my opinion on that? I mean I know I am attempting to be your go-to guy for opinions on a wide variety of topics and I don't want you to leave empty "handed", but dew? Who is choosing these topics anyhow? Now, if the person typing it in just got distracted and forgot to finish the topic, then it could make sense, because who has an opinion on dew? Maybe they were in the midst of typing Dewer's and wanted me to give my opinion on a particular brand of whiskey, which would be hard to do as I am very light drinker and much of my writing on Dewer's would be illegally copied from a variety of websites, making the opinions not transparently not my own. And, if I did drink copious amounts of whiskey, I wouldn't want to admit that as I am attempting to be a role model to the youth of today and whiskey drinking - no offense to the people are into it - I mean, kudos to you - but being really into Dewer's would be bad for my image and my public persona as someone who is squeaky clean (despite my often unshaven look and the fact that most of the squeaking is coming from my new pair of sneakers that are super loud and make it really hard to sneak up on anyone which I don't usually do and am not really a fan of - just saying that it eliminates that even as an option and I love having as many options possible available to me all of the time including, but not limited to, sneaking up on people with the intent of offering them a smoothie, the ability to purchase stocks and bonds while giving the appearance that I belong on the trading floor (probably need to have the floor repainted first so that we don't clash), and attending community pottery classes even though I am like a bull in a china shop or at least I dress like one. Maybe the topic-choosers got cut off on the way to typing Dewey and they wanted me to give a 5000-expose on the man behind the Dewey Decimal System which I understand was quite controversial at the time and it somehow beat out the significantly more popular, yet totally numerically random, Hayfield System that was more abstract and relied on the book searcher's ability to "sense" where the book was. People were very against the exacting precision of Dewey and his system and only gave in when the library closed for the long weekend and everyone went home after realizing that what everyone thought was Hayfield was just an old coat tossed on a pile of books placed in a very poorly lit corner of the library. I also thought they could have been typing DeWo, which is our group's nickname for our buddy Derek Wolters who is one crazy dude that I am happy to share my unabridged opinions on but I'd like to keep them off the record because, as I said, he is one crazy dude and in the off chance that he can not only read, but find a way to search the internet and find this blog and this specific piece of writing and either skim or scroll down to this point, then I just can't take that chance. He is all sorts of bonkers - like one time he literally tried to lick the hair of my head. He licked and licked and was actually able to remove a few strands of hair and only gave up because his imaginary phone rang reminding him of his real dentist appointment. This left us all quite confused and wondered if at some point later on his fake dentist would give him a real phone call just to keep things balanced. Anyways, let's just assume "dew" was the actual topic. Like am I supposed to be "for" or "against" it or arguing that it is either great and beneficial or dark and defiant? I am all for assigning human emotions, personality traits and motivations to inanimate objects and I will continue doing that despite the public outcry - it is also highly possible they are crying about something else. Maybe it isn't dew - I mean if lots of people are aimlessly crying and running around to and fro, maybe just maybe that explains why my grass is so wet. I will say that I strongly dislike tossing on my flip flops to water the arden in the morning and getting my feet soaked with dew and I also can't stand going for a run on the field and having my running shoes provide next to no resistance to the very wet grass. I also can't stand how in the morning my totally wet car gives my young, innocent children (I'd say they wouldn't hurt a fly, but that would be wrong on at least 10 occasions - they have a thing for hurting flies and that is probably worth looking into further, just not right now unless I am able to connect it somehow to dew and believe me I am up for the challenge, but am electing not to as it has been so long since I have elected not to do something and it feels like a good moment to do that) the hopes and dreams that it rained last night. They get so cutely excited about the possibility of splashing in puddles and making dams and when we get outside to clear skies and notice that it is only the grossly misleading dew that is almost mocking my adorable, spirited children who actually have a thing for harming many small insects - they aren't just focussed on flies. I'm sorry dew - I just think that making fun, teasing and almost bullying these cute, almost-harmless young ones is totally wrong. Well, look at me, I do have an opinion after all - and I can't believe some of you doubted me.

...exponents: Exponents seem pretty cool at first glance - they are numbers that help other numbers get really big really quickly and that is called exponential growth, which is also pretty cool except when it occurs on my back and then I hate it especially when it itches. Regularly, numbers go up so slowly that those of us who are busy just can't be bothered to hang around and wait for them to "get big already". I mean they are so slow - why can't they just multiply or add faster!?!?! But, exponents on the other hand, they don't have that problem. They aren't hanging out and waiting for anyone and they don't need your help. They are getting big and they are getting big now! You fall asleep and they are all like BOOM! Look at us, we are big now! Now, I respect their ability to grow at rates that we usually link with viruses or bacteria and I am happy for them and everything, but do they need to grow so quickly? Can't they slow down and enjoy the weather? Maybe have a latte? And I may give them a break if I knew why they wanted to be so big? What is their motive? And what are they not telling us? I mean the possibilities are endless as is their destination! I mean, as far as I can tell, they just go and go and go and never stop. Doesn't that bother you? It certainly is freaking me out a fair amount and am I the only one who believe that a law should be passed to put limits on them and how far they can go? They may seem nice and friendly and subservient now, but we have all seen the science fiction movies where the seemingly harmless robots enslave us all! What I have learned from those movies is that something that is harmful today may turn around and try to eliminate me and everyone I know and love tomorrow and that we should treat those robots well all the time, because even though it appears they don't have a grasp or access on human emotions, they seem to be listening and learning all the time and they leap at the first chance to use that poor treatment against us. Now, I know that exponents aren't the same as robots, but shouldn't we treat them well, just in case they somehow become sentient? I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to be constantly looking over my shoulder wondering when the previously-harmless superscript number will leap out of the shadows and try to rip my face off. I do treat numbers well and I'm not completely sure how I wouldn't, but I probably should spend more time trying to see things from their perspective. Not too much time as that would be fairly odd, but some time - I can probably spare a few minutes here and there. Another thing - I wonder how they feel about being reduced to superscript and whether they would prefer to be really big - maybe twice the size of the base number. I mean who is doing the heavy lifting here? The base number just sits there, looking pretty, batting their eye lashes and the exponent is making things happen and working up a bit of a sweat. The least we could is give them a larger spot on the marquee or at least use a fancy font. I guess what I'm really saying is that my own relationship with exponents is complicated and has been that way for a very long time. I have tried to embrace them (usually when no one else is around), but I just can't forgive and forget that easily. I hope I can reach a point where I not only feel like I'm able to look them in the eyes (it is also hard to locate their eyes at the best of times), shake their hands (also a problem) and just have a fun, numerical time like good old friends, but I'm not there yet. I'm only human and they are only numbers, and small ones at that, and we should be close, but we are worlds apart.

ideas for movies part 1

I am clearly not a movie producer or screenwriter, which is too bad for humanity as a whole or, at a minimum, certain segments of the population; like those with braces. I often dream of being a screenwriter but those dreams are usually prempted by my dreams of building walkie talkies which usually leads to a thorough analysis and critique of my dreams in general. 

In my day to day life I am often bombarded with ideas and I usually feel the need to either duck and hide or carry around a piece of aluminum siding just in case (luckily for me there is a big collection of aluminum siding in the lot next door where that unfinished house sits - I can't believe they haven't at least finished the siding by now). So, though I have zero chance of ever making a movie, that hasn't stopped me from formulating a variety of amazingly great ideas that, if given the chance, would render those high-powered movie moguls not only speechless, but also with a clean bill of health at no extra charge. Here is an idea I've been working on and keep in mind I haven't completely fleshed out all aspects at this pre-pre-pre-production phase.

The movie opens with a man sitting in a room. I haven't decided how many windows, if any, this room should have but I am leaning towards three as my uncle is in the window business and I would like to help him out. It is also unclear if the movie will open with him standing or sitting as the sitting may lull the audience into a stupor that they will never recover from or it may connect the audience, who is probably also sitting, with the man in ways that a standing man could never do. If he is standing, an actor with suitably strong legs would need to be cast as I would want the actor to give the impression that he is standing with ease and, if asked, he could stand for hours and hours. It is also unclear if the man should be alone or should be accompanied by a friend or a confidante or a cactus that he so badly wants to over water, but knows that he shouldn't. The relationship between the man and his cactus could be a pivotal aspect of the overall plot where the director explores the depths of human-desert plant relationships and uses that as an allegory about the plight of modern man and also of desert plants or the opening scene could be a throw away scene leaving the audience wondering what was the point of the man sitting in the wonderfully bright room with modern, impeccably installed windows accompanied by either a fellow human or cactus. In the end, the final decision over whether to use a person or cactus comes down to which auditions better. 

The man appears to be either the most intriguing person we've ever seen or just outside the top ten and looking to move up. He isn't a sit-in-a-room-with-a-cactus sort of guy, or maybe he is and it is his evil twin brother we should be watching as everyone gets them mixed up. Then, after reviewers are starting to question the decision to have the entire movie take place in a small room regardless of how quaint and deserving it may be, the ceiling literally collapses as I have long been a big fan of both unexpected entries to rooms as well as expanding the ways in which we utilize ceilings as up until now it is quite predictable and boring (plus my other uncle is in the ceiling business and needs some work- we all told him years ago that he should expand his company to also work with walls and floors, but he scoffed at us - although it is possible he was momentarily choking on a piece of cracker. Always eating crackers he was and building ceilings). 

Through the ceiling comes a helicopter with some sort of militia looking for our hero (too soon? I'd really like him to be a hero as would the fingers I'm typing this with and I find it a good idea not to ignore the wishes of my fingers too often or else they scratch and pinch and refuse to help with the food intake forcing me to eat like a pig, which is only tolerated by those I eat with on the occasional barnyard-themed weekends). Turns out he was in some sort of witness protection program and that he has some sort of key piece of hyper-important information that the government irrationally needs and just can't take the time to knock or call first. The audience will hopefully see our man as the lone hope for all of us against the tyranny of the unyielding kill-at-all-costs-up-until-the-Chinese-takeout-arrives-but-only-if-they-remembered-that-plum-sauce-as-it-is-delectable autocratic forces of the government and if not, then we may need to turn this into a musical comedy.

Luckily our man had a contingency plan just in case storm troopers came through the ceiling that he had just finished painting Sistine Chapel-style and was still recovering from the neck cramps and he flees through the trap door in the floor which is covered with a lot of paint drips reminding him that he should have covered the floor more thoroughly with old newspapers (if this lack of foresight about keeping the floor clean during the painting for the ceiling angers early audiences it may lead to a scene being inserted during the opening credits in the European distribution of the film showing the laying of the newspapers with poetic flair while Brahms is playing on an antique phonograph that either keeps skipping or is a rare composition of a modern-thinking Brahms who was exploring the use of skipping in his music).

Our man escapes through the trap door and into another hidden room that is nearly identical to the recently-vacated one only this time with no windows as it is underground. He spends only a minute here as we can hear chainsaws and jackhammers and what sounds like a family of woodpeckers above trying to break in. He just can't wait to see the woodpeckers who had babies earlier this spring! 

Our hero is refreshingly relaxed and the audience will hopefully appreciate his relaxed nature in the face of danger and will adopt some of this in their own lives as people are a little too highstrung these days and he is looking in the mirror and adjusting his hair and silently and over-dramatically bemoaning his receding hairline before racing out the door and jumping into an incredible car noticeably smudging the door which will most likely cause audience members to audibly gasp which is one of my goals as a budding writer. We can tell that he wants to buff out the smudge but his enemies are close by and he drives off obeying both the speed limit as well as his father's rule about drumming his fingers obsessively on the steering wheel as it drives everyone batty.

One thing I am unclear about at this point in the process is what does he have that the government wants. Should I go the typical route of an important set of files or photos or cheats for a video game on a jump drive or some sort of key or passcode or recipe for the best hummus? Or maybe they need a sample of his hair for a new exhibit at the museum and he is refusing to just give them a sample without some sort of hair in return. Or possibly the government is just bored and they have nothing to do this afternoon until their friends get off of work and they plan to get some dinner and watch the game. Or maybe we have it all wrong and this guy is pure evil or, seeing how hard it is to achieve total purity in this day and age, something-close-to-actual-purity-so-much-so-that-it-will-undetectable-to-all-but-the-keenest-eyes-and-the-chance-of-that-guy-with-the-keen-eyes-watching-my-movie-is-slim-as-I-am-sure-a-man-of-his-ocular-proclivity-will-either-be-occupied-with-more-important-tasks-or-watching-a-better-film-not-wanting-to-waste-his-eyes-on-just-any-images and the government is trying to capture him to prevent his unleashing his most recent weapon or gas or brand of faulty tap shoes on the world. 

Regardless, a chase ensues. It is as much of a chase as it is a chess game and that is because it also happens to be an actual chess game between our hero and a government-appointed grand master chess player who is part of this military force purely in the off-chance that a grandmaster chess player is needed which almost never comes up which renders him a little off guard. Note: for those who are not impressed, it is really hard to film a high-speed, high-anxiety, car-flipping, gas tank-exploding, cows-eating-grass-and-acting-generally-unimpressed-as-cows-are-relatively-unimpressed-at-the-best-of-times-until-the-grass-has-all-been-consumed-or-scorched-as-a-result-of-the-chase-and-then-watch-out car chase and to carry out a top caliber chess match at the same time. Now, I'm sure that some of the more callous of the critics will surmise that the chess game was only inserted to try to tap into the highly sought-after chess-playing segment of the population and they would at least be partially correct with my reserving the right to upgrade that to completely correct at a later date. 

Finally, when it seems that our hero cannot divert capture any longer he grows tired of being the hunted and just gives himself up by slamming on the breaks which defies all expectations for their ability to break so adeptly. If there was ever a great opportunity for a "breaks" company to sponsor a film and receive exposure and market penetration at an almost unprecedented level, this would be it. In fact, to prove a point, all cars and trucks and hijacked school buses involved in the chase will stop on a dime (not the same one, weren't not that cheap- we will have numerous dimes scattered on the street) aside from one not using our break sponsor's product and not only will that car crash in the most graphic means the producers can afford, but the car and its occupants will also completely vanish thus leaving open at least one, albeit a confusing and nonsensical one, option for a part 2 if the film is critically acclaimed. 

Our hero walks slowly towards the out-of-breath government officials who are clearly glad to have nabbed their man at least partially because their spouses have cooked meatloaf and gravy served with a sides of green beans and mashed potatoes and they would hate to be late because the food is not half bad and because I have created their characters as meatloaf-and-gravy-and-sides-loving human beings and they really have no choice.

The next morning, our man wakes up in a holding cell and he can't decide whether he should pace or do pushups or to sit cross-legged and attempt to touch his nose with his tongue. As he struggles with this decision, his cellmate wakes up and interrupts his state of deep thought. As the cellmate slowly turns around, we discover that it is either the man's hairdresser who should have been arrested years ago for those overly offensive and controversial haircuts or his cactus-salesperson who has been illegally smuggling in quite-legal cacti for years for confounding reasons as it would have been really easy for him to perform this importing without any criminal element or risk of going to jail and yet he insisted on living on the edge. Friends shook their heads and suggested "import the cacti and then go rob a bank if you want to" but their words of advice fell on deaf ears. As this part may be tough to play, I am already searching for an actual hard-of-hearing cactus salesperson. Send resumes ASAP. 

The two men well up with emotion upon seeing each other and the hug for just long enough for the audience to start to wonder about the nature of their relationship. They whisper into each other's ears simultaneously so that neither can understand what the other is saying and a long exchange is shown where they both keep starting to whisper at the same time and then indicate "no, you go first" followed by "no, you" followed by something else said in unison until the two of them give up whispering, equally impressed at their ability to whisper for so long in complete unison without any rehearsing. Also, the two actors have been hugging for so long at this point, that they are also starting to wonder about the nature of both their character's relationship as well as their own and whether the actor hired to play our lead actor wants to purchase a few cacti once the film has wrapped.

At ten o'clock the government negotiators have finally arrived and all present wonder if they either forgot to set their alarms or are trying to be cool and fashionably late. The aide for the negotiator is trying to tell her as she enters the scene that this is not a moment where it is possible to be fashionably late as she is dealing with possibly traitors or moles or undercover government negotiators who are already far cooler than she can ever be so she may as well quit while she is ahead and just admit that she is late because she couldn't decide whether to perm or straighten her hair this morning and finally settled on a look that could be described as "wilted Italian parsley".  

It is clear that our two have finally communicated and got their story straight as we see in a series of amazingly fast and comical flashbacks from their cell overnight filmed with a Benny Hill-style humour that is a welcome break from the tense nature of the film for the audience allowing them to laugh for exactly 25 seconds as well as a chance for the director to press a few of those cool buttons next to the record button that he is always pressing to the point of where a little part of him dies inside each time he does.

A lone light bulb sways slowly above a rickety table which our hero, his cellmate/friend and the government negotiators sit around even though the table is square which involves a bit of coordination for all involved to make a shape resembling a circle. An electrician has been called to do something about the light bulb as the swaying is fairly distracting and having no light shade makes all who happen to look at it momentarily blinded which is sort of chuckle-worthy the first time it happens and completely not the next 11 times. Finally, after a lot of awkward silence while the actors all wait for the actor playing the electrician to arrive, the electrician for the movie walks in and begins to fix the light as he thinks it is just a light that needs fixing and not a million dollar scene in a billion dollar movie (depending on how my loan from my great uncle goes, I may have to divide both of the figures by 10 or even 100). This scene is quite long as it takes the electrician a long time to figure out how to remedy the situation and the director will hopefully not cut corners as it is important for the youth of today to recognize how complex and time consuming some electrical work actually is. 

At long last the electrician is done and he presents the bill to the negotiator's aide who makes a face that seems to say "why would I have to pay for this - I actually liked the stereotypically swinging light in the first place and plus negotiator's aides don't make nearly as much money as one would think and that is probably at least partially due to my poor job performance and it is something that those higher up have spoken to me about and threatened to cut out my free morning omelette until I improve." And then the electrician pulls out a submachine gun surprising everyone and pulls off his dirty work jacket to reveal an equally dirty spy-looking jacket that everyone instantly can see as part of an amazing Halloween costume. 

Before anyone can react, "the electrician" (I'm calling him that as it is totally unclear whether he has to be an electrician at all as there will never be any need to prove that he fixed the light although it would be a bonus in the long run to have a workable light in this room that also doubles as a room to hang out and discuss both modern and ancient philosophies over cups of steaming rooibos tea when the shoot is over and even occasionally during a shoot if the director is particularly relaxed and/or nearsighted) and our two guys race out of the building dressed as a cute teenaged girl with braces and her slightly-too-youthful looking mother who is carrying one of those almost-laughably large saddle bag purses who often frequent high security facilities like this as their way of not appearing too culturally aloof with moderate results.

Another chase scene ensues and, due to monetary constraints, only small snippets can be filmed and they will only be shown if the audience claps loudly enough to fill the applause-o-meter on the screen. The movie ends with our hero and his friend who is obviously miffed that he wasn't considered important enough to be given a name or at least a cool moniker winning the lottery (they stopped during the previous chase scene as they had to use the washroom and just couldn't hold it; though they did discuss the pros and cons of wetting one's self via being tasered before finally deciding that the long-term health of their bladders was more important than one would think. While at the gas station they also bought a lottery ticket). The movie then cuts to 6 months later where the two have clearly had hair cuts that give them both the illusion of Jewishness as well as drawing attention to their I-can't-believe-they're-not-Slavic-although-they-could-be-Slavic-as-we-on-the-whole-are-not-totally-sure-what-that-would-even-look-like cheekbones. We see them volunteering at a local charity, with big smiles on their faces and we are left wondering how they avoided being caught and what were they even being interrogated about and why did they want to catch him in the first place before the final close up that reveals all which I can share at this time as it would (a) give away the end of the movie, (b) not make any sense and (c) possibly I don't have an ending at this time at all and instead am considering either not ending the movie at all as I believe that is sometimes giving the audience exactly what they want and audiences sometimes need to be treated like an incessantly-barking rabid dog which is to encase them entirely in jello rendering them stationary, bouncy and more edible.

The Grass in My Backyard

The grass in my backyard is green.

Or at least it should be,

Or could be,

But it's not.

Is yours?

Maybe I should have watered my grass like I was 

reminded,

asked,

and asked again,

so I could proudly show off my lawn and my ability to care for others who require daily watering to the world.

I can feel the prying eyes looking at my yard from above and I wonder how they got up there as well as feeling pain and sympathy and some misplaced guilt. 

"It's over here!" I shout.

Oh why did I take my splendid grass for granted like I had with countless houseplants and ex-girlfriends before and did I not love spending what seemed like hours or days or that week back in '78 rolling around on its lush, soft blades like I was a young boy again with freckles and glasses without a care in the world?

I've failed you this time grass,

but I will prove to you and humankind that I have learned my lesson and can fix you and make you whole again, thus making myself whole again too.

You will rise.

I promise.

My hands are covered with green paint.

Again.

What is wrong with me?

Don't answer that.

When I am alone with my green paint,
the world is my oyster,
the canvas is my stage,
the ideas are like rockets,
my brush is actually just my brush despite his protestations that he deserves a metaphor as well.

He doesn't.

At all.

In moments of serenity I lay on the floor next to my brushes and paint jars and papers that cover the floor and the four walls that surround me and I look up at the ceiling and dream of the future and all of the exciting things to come before I abruptly sit up and decide to paint my toes and my fingers and head to the movies.

The possibilities are endless when I am with brush and paint.
I can paint a frog,
or a family of frogs,
or a young boy with a slightly hunched back who is often dressed like a frog,
or a tree.

That's about it.

My stained hands are not unlike the stained hands of those that have come before me, my fallen brothers and sisters, who honestly are attention-seekers and should just get up already as nobody is watching.

Yes, my hands are green, thanks for noticing, and I've never felt more alive.

That's not saying much.

The money in my hand is green.

It could be the currency of our neighbours to the south granting me chances and opportunities and a fresh start.

But it's not.

Instead it is but play money,

worthless paper,

not real tender,
bendable and foldable,

and highly flammable.

Not that I've tried. 

Much.

All I can spend it on is fake tea and cake for Barbie and her friends as I play with my daughters. 

I feel strongly inclined to encourage Barbie to either save it for a rainy day or invest it as she is exceptionally bad at resisting blowing it all impulse shopping.

I wish that the money was real and that I could race to the stores and shops and get what I want, what I need, what I wish would make me fully happy but I know won't quite get me there as some things you just can't buy just like my mom used to tell me before giving me a hug that lacked conviction.

I used to think that if only I had many pockets

or bags

or locked safes hidden in my closet under my dirty shirts

or accounts 

full of money that problems will be solved.

But they aren't.

Not even close.

If only this green paper could

buy real cake,
then at least I'd have that.

The green shirt in my closet is my favourite.

I put it on and I'm instantly transformed into a person nicer to look at.

Moderately.

Much of the time the shirt 

hangs in my closet,

uncomfortably close to the hanger,

sitting in the dark,

plotting its revenge on the pants,

and wishing it could either speak or wear me for a change.

But it can't.

I'm all booked up at the moment.

How is next Tuesday?

I remember that day when I saw the shirt on display in the store almost literally calling "buy me" although my past is littered with all of the times I have misunderstood clothing resulting in much hilarity for all.

Ha ha ha.

Relatives beg and plead for me to see the truth, that it is only a shirt, but I know they are lying,

or jealous,

or far-sighted,

or sleep deprived,

or under-watered house plants.

Somedays I want to put on my green shirt and storm out of my house and announce myself to the world and other days I want to shrink into my closet clutching my shirt to my bare chest trying to be brave or just slightly less un-brave resisting the urge to use the shirt as a handkerchief.

I know it seems like only a shirt, but

it's so much more; it completes me.

Don't look so surprised.

Please?

The avocado in my bag is green.

I just can't wait to storm into my house, open it and scoop out its creamy insides and devour it like a wild animal consuming its prey.

That sounds a tad cruel.

But it's not.

I hope.

Others vehemently argue with me that they are only delicious fruit, but I know that they are also,

inspirations for poetry,

audiences for monologues,

kings of the salad,

how I met my wife,

and always there for me.

I love the feel of a just ripened avocado and I often find myself standing in the grocery store breathlessly caressing and gently squeezing each of them in turn hoping and praying to find a perfect one that I can take home and devour in private.

Nothing is worse then opening an avocado and seeing only brown as I just can't mask my disappointment.

My sister borrowed my last mask.

Yesterday.

I think.

Avocados are versatile and can instantly improve any

boring salad,

dry omelette,

lackluster sandwich,

monotone college instructor.

In the future, I hope that avocados can help us achieve world peace and that all the people of the world can sit together holding hands and making eye contact without giggling. 

Shhh....

I hold the avocado with a confidence that is meant to help me develop my hand muscles as well as inspire and confuse others.

You're welcome. 

The writing process 3

There was a time when I didn't exist. And then, as far as my limited capacity for understanding things allows, I was born. For a long time especially before the age of 5, I did a lot of different things - none of them creative writing. I know it is hard to believe but I used to not write. At least not for fun or money or for purposes of espionage. Then one day, I dropped everything and started to write. Everything shattered to the ground, but I was so engrossed with my initial idea, that I didn't even stop to clean it up. And here we are today.

Once I started writing on a regular basis I was overwhelmed with a feeling that I would run out of ideas and that I would started repeating myself. Well, it seems that I was wrong. Ideas just come to me (I have purchased a few of them from time to time and have participated in an idea exchange program where a few of my ideas change places with a few ideas from another writer and enjoy hanging out in their writing for a while. I loved having these visiting ideas and I showed them the town and took them out to some of the finest restaurants, but I still think they seemed a bit homesick and while I was sad to see them go, I loved having my ideas back. They seemed a little older, a little wiser and a bit less strange in comparison to the ones who stayed with me. We had quite a celebration, me and my once-again reunited ideas, which mostly involved sparkling apple juice and a game of twister.) Yes, the concern that my mind would not be able to generate any new ideas was based on my faulty thinking that my mind was like an hourglass (not sure about the shape - I mean I'd be okay with that and that could explain why I feel something similar to sand moving around inside my brain when I do lots of cartwheels in succession) that had somehow been cracked and was leaking at a rapid rate and that once empty would be patched up with some super-adhesive glue so no sand could be put back in.

I thought that once an idea left my head, either due to my writing it down or on it's own volition (I don't actually think ideas or thoughts think themselves, although I am a big fan of cutting out the middleman and if I am a middleman in this arrangement then I would want someone else to cut me out. I just haven't the heart to do it to myself as I know it will involve a super-long, really-challenging conversation that will undoubtedly end in making myself cry which will make me reconsider cutting myself out only knowing that when I go back to the big boss who only cares about the bottom line that I may be at risk of losing my job which will end in my own tears, so either way I lose. Seems to be a theme these days.) If once used, thoughts were gone forever, then they would become like a valuable commodity worth holding on to and sort of leaving in an incubation phase where they were sort of thought-out but not quite - as a way of holding on to them and putting off the goodbyes and having to rent out their room and put their stuff in the attic. I have found, much to my delight and glee, that ideas don't run out, that my mind is not like an hourglass (although that makes me even more confused about the internal sand-in-my-head thing that I may or may not be imagining and I will let you know when I reach a decision - only 25 more flips of the coin to go!) and I am not just a middleman. I mean I may be a middleman, not just a middleman and this is now the most times I have ever written or said or thought the word middleman in my life and it is either the start of a big "writing the word middleman" phase I'm going through or the end of a short one. It is exactly as much fun as it sounds and I am sitting in silence right now in case you were wondering. It isn't always silent, what with the beeps and the honks and the roaming cavalry but it is right now as the sun is shining and everyone else is outside flying kites or walking dogs or attempting to see what happens if you attach a large kite to a small dog on a particularly windy day.

So, how do I think up new ideas? Do you really want to know? Do I want to share my secret or do I want to take it to my grave like an old Italian woman with her prized spaghetti and meat sauce recipe (shhh - the secret ingredient is nutmeg, lots and lots of nutmeg, almost to the point where it is inedible and her family has just been way too polite for years now while also building up a huge tolerance for overly nutmegged foods). I have very little in common with old Italian grandmothers and even if I was interested in doing something about this I'm not sure how I'd start bridging the gap aside from going undercover and living among those wise, bastions of culture. I'd immerse myself in their lives and come out of this experience all the richer and the wiser and the more female and Italian and I'd probably wonder, while feeling proud, if I had just wasted three years of my life.

New ideas just come to me. These seemingly random thoughts just pop into my head and I find some way, not always logical, to connect them. Having said that, one of my favourite things in writing is to take a wide variety of odd thoughts and make them sing together. I have a long history of trying to make things sing together - I've worked with a band of neighbourhood stray cats that just couldn't hold a tune or deal with constructive criticism without hissing and scratching. I also tried helping a group of enthusiastic grade 5s once when their music teacher was sick with scurvy (which I thought was odd and most likely an excuse to wallpaper her room as I seem to be stuck on people wallpapering their rooms even though almost no one does that any longer, which could be part of my problem - I miss the wallpapering days of yore) and while they definitely performed with the requisite attitude and defiance I was aiming for they just couldn't differentiate between a high C and a B flat for which I was constantly at wits end. Finally, while in a state of delirium and feeling alternatingly blisteringly hot and icy cold from a high fever and hopped up on meds, I tried to teach a variety of body parts to sing broadway show numbers and we were incredible with the only downside being that my family spent the rest of the week on the phone with a variety of specialists trying to rule out anything too serious. But words, they are fun to put together to make sentences. I love sentences- just not ones involving poisonous snakes...not that I have any firsthand knowledge - I refuse to rank my hands as a general rule.

People may be thinking "don't be so self-absorbed" and I want to say that I'm not so self-absorbed, only partially self-absorbed and mostly in an endearing fashion like a baby or a robot. On a side note, I would love to be self-absorbing - think of how easy it would be to clean up spills in the kitchen! One piece of advice I was given before creating my blog was to avoid coming across as condescending - which can happen very easily if I am not careful. I have tried to a certain extent, but sometimes the feelings of patronizing superiority just rise up from within me and it comes out in the writing. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I don't want to spend too much time analyzing the writing which would lead naturally to analyzing myself which would lead to lots of self-reflective writing and then analyzing that and where would that get me? I may as well just write and not reflect at all and be happily oblivious sort of like deer or not write and just spend more time with the family - they are all growing up so fast and furry. I have always had a great respect for deer and their non-reflective ways - although, if they were slightly more reflective they may live longer.

I'm actually being facetious about not reflecting and analyzing as I sort of allowed myself to go completely off track (I need to look into fixing the tracks, glueing myself to them and then calling it a day. I love that! I think I can call when the day is over when really I have no say at all and neither do you. Just try it - call it a day and see what really happens. That's right. We are so small and insignificant in the realm of day-calling. Nights too probably. Who do I think I am  - a day caller?) - what I meant to say was that I don't ever want to sound condescending and instead would be more than happy to be able to condensing things - like my own milk or my collection of old socks or compress things rendering my need for a hot compress moot. Sometimes I feel like my whole purpose in life is to render things moot and other times I start to question if I truly understand what purpose means and other times I just feel like smiling at myself in the mirror until my cheeks are sore and need to be rubbed. I love to rub my own cheeks. In fact, I could go for some of that right now and I would if I didn't already have some potatoes to peel for purposes I've yet to determine. And if I want to be self-absorbed, who are "they" to say that I can't? Why are "they" always trying to limit how I spend my time? If I want to spend every moment of my free time being sky-high absorbed with myself then that is something I must do, because as I have learned the hard way , I just gotta be me, mostly because everyone else is already taken.

One big challenge I face everytime I write an intentionally funny piece is trying to be actually fun and not to come across as trying too hard to sound funny. I use the word intentionally because sometimes I write something slightly more dramatic in tone that may also come across as hilarious to some (similar but not the same as having people laugh at you when you trip and fall - I once tried incorporating a real trip and fall while I was writing and nearly broke the computer as well as giving myself quite the gash in my head- thankfully we were both okay). I know when I read other people's work that seems too forced and not really that funny I feel pain and I cringe like when you witness someone twisting their ankle. It is just so hard to stand by and do and say nothing when a comedic piece falls flat, so I usually take the cowardly way out and just sneak out the back door trying to leave unnoticed. I know how that sounds, but I have to say that I have nearly perfected taking the cowardly way out of situations to the extent where I believe that is a thing of beauty in and of itself - I may actually put together a one-man show featuring me being super-cowardly with the intent being that it is non-cringe worthy and really funny so that the audience doesn't try to take the cowardly way out and leave out the back door during the show (just so you know, what gives the appearance of a back door is really just a painted door that is part of my set - just letting you all know to avoid any accidents.)

So I always have a voice in the back of my head checking and double checking to guard against me crossing from the ranging from the stop-me in-my-tracks-funny-to-at-least-somewhat-funny zone to the should-be-avoided-at-all-costs-so-unfunny-the-reader-is-actually-tossing-a-coin-between-figuratively-and-literally-pulling-their-hair-out zone. I believe that I spend most of my time in the former, but I have also found myself in the barren wastelands of the latter where the only restaurant in town is a Greek place that specializes in Chinese food, the one good clothing store is constantly all out of overalls and the local school decided to save money by only offering odd-numbered grades for the students and those kids unlucky enough to be in an even grade have to sit cross-legged in the gym for hours at a time resulting in feet that are constantly asleep. Every second of time I've spent in that horribly unfunny place has been devising a plan for how to escape which usually involves paying a highly-inflated price for a train ticket only to find out that the train is broken down and I have to walk. In reality, when things are hard or tough to write I either take a long break or persevere and force myself to get funnier  RIGHT NOW! as I have a low tolerance for my own failure in this area and I know fully well what I will do to myself if I don't figure it out and give myself a shake (true story - social workers were called in immediately one day when some passerby with the best of intentions saw me shaking myself a little too vigorously while berating myself saying "after all I do for you, with the cooking and self-affirmations and the promise to buy you the goat you have always wanted, this is what I get in return!?!!?" I couldn't blame the well-meaning citizen who called, I needed some help as I could have hurt myself and those meetings with the social worker, me and myself were among the most profound, emotional and utterly confusing I've ever experienced.

Throughout this all, I have gained a better understanding of grammar and spelling or at least writing gets you thinking about it all the time. I was never an elite grammarian and I did feel twinges of jealousy when a few of my friends came back from their retreat in the mountains telling stories that I never quite understood the gist of due to my not being on their level grammatically. Through writing this blog, I have become more aware and that is beneficial as becoming less aware would require a whole new set of hats and scarves. I'd also guess that being totally unaware, while blissfully fun, greatly limits your ability to garden and I've always wanted to learn how to garden mostly as a means to become slightly less dependant on others to provide my food for me - it's always made me feel a little unclean. So my current level of grammar and spelling and punctuation are far from perfect, but they are far better than they once were and while I am tempted to blow my own horn, it's in the shop right now and there is a noise-restriction in the townhouse complex I live in anyways.

I have blown many a horn in my time for reasons ranging from a dare from someone I thought was my friend (I should have heeded the advice my father gave me as a child which was never to blow a horn on a dare as it may get you in hot water - I ignored him as I was sitting in a pleasing hot water bath at the time I didn't see that a negative consequence in any way. I was also 6.), my way of training the wild geese I had been tasked to train by the wildlife park's general manager which had the opposite effect as it only riled them up to a level where they even refused to swim without water wings which just don't come in the right size and when I won the obscure award for the best rendition of a bookkeeper's uncle based on my work in a small play about a bookkeeper who, on his death bed, meets the uncle he never knew he had only to have to be rushed off to his dialysis appointment and have the surprise meeting with the relative he was never aware of cut quite short. Perfect grammar isn't my goal as it takes away from the relaxed nature in which I write and I believe in a world where there is a perfect level or image of everything but it is unreachable and incomprehensible by mere humans who are mortal and aren't perfect. I think it is more than just okay as it is our imperfections that define us and our acceptance of those imperfections that make us lovable, help us laugh at our own mistakes and not mind when our goofy buddy constantly messes up the take-out order. Why do we always let him order?