The Writing Process: Part 2

So, I am back to continue to enlighten all of you who are still tuning in (is there more of an echo now then last time or is that just the result of all of my vocal training?) about how I write. Note: if any of you are actually attempting to tune in, please stop as it is greatly disrupting my cable and most likely not at all possible unless you have tons of money and then almost anything is possible. For those who missed the first piece about the writing process, these blog posts are my chance to share where my ideas come from and how much it costs for me to purchase them and bring them here from their native Namibia. I am attempting to flesh out how I do what I do without using any actual flesh in the process. I did try to brainstorm how I would use flesh if I wanted to and just couldn't think of a plan that would be overly messy and attractive to ants. There are times when I want to be attractive to ants, but those are some of my dark moments that I don't want to get into right now. No, right now I am thinking of a family in the hills of Germany...and I'm back. That happens to me from time to time - without any announcement, I am mentally whisked away to another part of the world where I will often stay, get acculturated and even be adopted by a family or clan if all things go well. Sometimes the trip is long and heart-warming and other times the people there just want to eat my warmed heart as a tasty pate with a slice of fresh baguette. This time the trip was short, mostly because the German family was at a bratwurst festival (not for eating, but more for the out-of-body experiences that come from eating one too many sausages) for the weekend and also because I feel the need to write.

I also feel the need to decorate my room with various mirrors and colourful drapes for reasons that I have been told by my lawyers I do not need to go into detail about right now no matter how many times I pretend that I am asked. Yesterday it was 5 times. For the record, I don't have any lawyers or even one single lawyer and I have also been told by them to say that as well. Is me writing about me writing sort of like talking to myself while I eat the food I made and telling myself about what a good job I did and patting myself on the back at the same time? Don't worry - I'm not doing that as it is way too challenging to eat, talk and pat myself all at the same time. I plan to do them one-by-one-by-one and that is how I will spend this Sunday! This piece of writing is not meant to sound too self-congratulatory - self-congratulatory too an extent, just not so much so that I make anyone sick or more sick in case they happened to be reading this while sick in the hopes it would either make them better or just distract them from how badly they feel. Either way - I'm good - I take great pride in distracting people from how bad they feel or just how they feel in general. Spend some time around me and you won't have any idea how you feel at all! Not that is a slogan I can live with! It is a gradual process - you will start feeling a lot and then little by little you will grow emotionally numb, some checkers will be played, the wind will howl, the birds will fly south for the winter and a pie will be consumed. All of this for the low cost of having to hear me moan about things - I'm sorry, I wish I could sing better too.

Contrary to popular opinion, writing is not all fun and games. Fun and games is all fun and games - writing is not fun and games at all and I'm not sure why we are spending so much time trying to explain this as it seems pretty easy to understand. Oh, one more thing - fun and games is not entirely all  fun and games, that is just what the powerful fun and games lobby wants us to believe. Occasionally there are tears. Too many tears and the word fun starts to see wrong and quite insensitive and sort of like why don't the rest of you stop playing and laughing and see what is the matter already? I hope we understand each other and I can't proceed until we do or else I will have a nagging feeling sort of like a mother bird when she leaves her nest full of cute little helpless baby birds who are anxious for her to return (is that true - are little birds actually anxious? do they have the ability to feel such a complex emotion at such a young age? and maybe they are happy to have the nest to themselves for a while before boring old mom comes back who only cares about spitting chewed up food in our mouths even when we have had more than enough?)

I know I just said "we" and lumped you into all this when you may have been just passing through and you are most likely thinking "wait a minute! Like woah - slow down, big fellow. Don't get me all mixed up in all of your issues." To which I reply (a) I am willing to take your minute and raise you an infinite number of minutes - That's right! I can wait as long as this is going to take or as long as you will let me stand here on your porch before calling the authorities (ask for Bob down at the precinct, we are on a first-name basis and I know he loves two creams and a sugar in his coffee), (b) I will not slow down (c) "Big fellow?" - have you taken a close look at me recently? That is wrong on at least two accounts and I know I can find at least four or five more if given the time and some chocolate and (d) issues?!?!? What do you know of my issues? Have you talked to Sarah? Did she say that if you read this you could get mixed up in them? For the record I was just bidding time until my "mom" came back to "the nest", if by "mom" I meant "star ship" and by "the nest" I meant "home base" and when I told her that I wished I was a herring who was about to be caught in the net of a muscular, but kind fisherman and his son, I WAS JOKING! Did she honestly think I thought I was a herring??!?! Okay, that actually could make sense - I do get occasionally slimy and have a large collection of all different kinds of scales.

For those that didn't know, I have been caught in nets on two separate occasions - once was my fault entirely as I decided to drape a series of nets in my bedroom the same week I decided that any form of lighting was completely passe and the other time was at a costume party when my best friend, dressed as a net, bumped into me (dressed coincidentally also as a net, only a much smaller one) and we became entangled and lay in a pile all evening long (we believed in not only dressing as nets but acting as net-like as possible to complete the effect) - it was the closest the two of us ever had been and we swore never to talk about that evening again which I am violating right now and feeling actually not so bad for doing. The part about being caught or rescued by a hunky, should-be-in-underwear-ads, fisherman and his equally-dropdead-gorgeous-yet-overly-fish-smelling sons...yeah...anyways...

Easily the toughest things about writing for me are not what you would think of (not that I am pretending to always know what you think, or to ever be knowing what you or any of your kind think. Quite the opposite in fact, I know nothing that you are thinking about as evidenced by my inability to buy you a present or even  a piece of fruit that you don't instantly return. And when I say your kind, I don't mean that in a derogatory way, unless of course it is my turn to be derogatory - for those that don't know, a few friends and I take turns each Thursday from 9am till noon being derogatory to each other - sort of like a snack-bringing rotation except that it usually makes me angry and upset and there is no sugar involved except on particularly creative Thursdays). I can easily find my way to the computer and I get how to turn it on etc etc etc - I am mildly offended that many of you thought that the whole finding my computer and actually getting to my blog would be the challenging part for me. Not totally offended, just mildly, as I said, sort of akin to going walking in the woods and only stumbling upon chanterelles and no wild morels or having two out of five random passersby thumb their noses at me for no apparent reason aside from my decision to wear gumboots to the opera which only shows both my complete inability to anticipate proper attire for many formal events and to read through the lines in my friends texts that were evidently supposed to be sarcastic (I just figured she was quoting some unknown author or authors repeatedly. I did wonder why these quotes were particularly memorable, but I just kept quiet as the last time I admitted to not knowing the source of some seemingly random quotes I ended up having to make egg salad sandwiches for the whole accounting department aside from Fred who preferred tuna.)

No, the toughest problems with writing for me are finding cool and unique names for characters that I am using in my stories. Not that there aren't an amazing amount of awesome names, but I know a lot of people and if I use a name of someone I know they probably think one of the following thoughts (a) should I be flattered or concerned?, (b) let's take a wait and see approach and if he makes money I'll attempt to sue/bribe/threaten him for lots of money over using my name without asking, (c) isn't it weird that of all the millions of names in the world that he chose mine and does that mean that he thinks we are friends? Well, let me put your mind at rest (only literalily of course) - I am attempting to choose names that have zero connection to anyone who may actually read my writing and if I happen to choose your name then it was merely a coincidental slip-up which you should not read anything into. Or if you are in the mood, I suggest you spend hours and hours reading into it and if you find anything interesting, please let me know. Maybe there is some hidden connection that I am unaware of at this point - like maybe I unknowingly used your name because your grandfather once pulled a thorn out of my grandfather's hand when they were playing around that good ol' thorny bush that they spent many an hour playing around as young kids and my grandfather was ever-so-grateful that he just wouldn't let up with the appreciation which usually took the form of cream cheese and jam sandwiches aside from the occasional parfait when his mom just happened to make two of just in case there was someone, anyone, he wanted to thank for some small, seemingly innocuous thing - I'm sure if this happened, my grandfather would have tucked me into bed and told me this story of how your grandfather was such a hero in his eyes and that his eyes had been conditioned to be blind to heros except when thorns were involved and then they were wide open, just not wide open enough to miss the thorn in the first place and usually by this time in the story I was fast asleep, but his story would blend into my dreams and then years later when I decided to launch into some creative writing the name was somewhere in the recesses of my brain mostly because I elected against having that elective and quite-risky-sounding surgery of having the recesses "smoothed" over mostly for cosmetic reasons.

As an aside, I try to do as much as I can for cosmetic reasons outside of buying any actual cosmetic items as I'm working my way up to that, sort of how I worked my way up to hang gliding after just jumping off my couch for years until I both broke the couch and was ordered by both my doctor and downstairs neighbour to get out of the house more often. Note: I've never actually hang glided - I've just worked my way up to it which is akin to saying that I am standing in a line waiting my turn with my prized pineapple to commision a fruit sculptor (someone who carves humourous celebrity faces into fruit) who is currently on "vacation" which means he is in prison for life for mistakenly and repeatedly attempting to carve an actual celebrities face. The names I choose just come to me. Almost like I am still and they are moving at the speed of light or maybe it is the other way around and the names are stationary in space and I am screaming up to them at speeds I am unaware mostly because it will be a cold day in hell before I recognize relativity.

So, to avoid using names of those I know, I am tempted to swing the other way and only use extremely uncommon names, but then people may start to wonder what is up with these names I am choosing and why they all sound African or Korean. That reminds me - I am planning to write a piece about two ex-lovers who decide to move (one to Africa and one to Korea), change their names to fit in with the people in their respective countries and also as a voluntary and totally unnecessary witness-protection program only in this case it was only to protect themselves from each other as the love just hurt too much (all of their friends suggested clipping their nails on a more regular basis and just practicing compassion and stop being so aggressive all the time). After a few years, when they both have become accustomed to their new surroundings, they unveil their plan - to each open up a hair salon that would specialize in straightening afros and perming bangs. These salons would be doomed to fail, which was part of the plan all along, and they would both fly home to the small town in Texas they were from (to be honest, they were from a slightly larger city in Texas originally but I decided against that as I wanted them to have a more small town feel to them, which for me only involved deleting a few key strokes and doing a little extra typing, but for them it involved packing, moving and renting a storage locker to put their huge collection of antique wig stands in just before they were about to purchase their first wig) and meet on the tarmac at the airport only to remember why they left in the first place. They really don't like each other at all and only forget that from time to time because of the fact that they are actually figments of the imagination of a third person who is always mixing up who is who in his head. All in all it is an incredibly bad and intentionally convoluted idea for a story which means that if I eventually write it, it will mostly be out of spite unless I feel that I have already done too much out of spite at the time and then I will do it out of revenge or the need to exercise my fingers in as socially acceptable a fashion as possible.

Along the way, when either preparing to write or writing, I have learned some important things. One thing that stands out is I've learned how important breathing is and also that it is very very important not to touch the burning log in the fire place and also to say please and thank you. It never ceases to amaze me how others are nicer to you when you treat them well and this mostly speaks to how long I've been able to condition myself to maintaining the feeling of amazement. I can go literally for days in this state of awe where I am totally overjoyed and inspired by everything I come into contact with or directly contact head on and I'm also very fortunate when these days ends and I'm not in traction. The word traction almost sounds a bit exciting because as my imaginary friend Joe always says, you can't spell attraction without traction which always makes me smile wistfully and makes me long for some actual flesh and blood friends or at least ones with one of those two criteria, but preferably both as I'm not totally interested in a friend who is solely or mostly flesh and I'm definitely not too crazy about blood.

Another thing I've learned that is worthwhile sharing with you at this time is the importance of looking at someone when speaking to them. The main reasons seem to be that it greatly lessens the confusion of who I am talking to especially when in a busy place like a train station and because in this day and age if you can't look someone in the eyes in makes the other person feel very self-conscious and wonder "what is so wrong with me that he can't even look me in the eyes or even at my nose, which would like some visual attention too from time to time when the eyes have either had enough or decide to get off their high horse and share once and a while". I don't want to make anyone else more self-conscious than me - it is a competition I've been playing in every day since last year went I met that odd lady on the corner downtown with the large collection of stuffed birds for sale. I liked the black and white one the best, and she seemed to be enamored with my shirt collar which I agree was my best feature that day, but just couldn't take it when she offered as my hands were metaphorically full and it was just too confusing to attempt to explain this to the lady who seemed like she would be quite metaphorically-challenged. I do not want to unnecessarily challenge anyone in life, especially since the infamous Balloon Incident.

Opinions?!?! I've Got Opinions!

I have lots and lots of opinions - not sure why, but I am trying not to question myself as there is a queue. And, I guess the word has gotten around that I have some thoughts and feelings and ideas about a wide variety of things and what has started happening recently is that people are often stopping me in the street or while shopping and are asking me my opinion on things. I am happy to share. This is the first in a series of my opinions on a variety of topics that I have been asked about recently. I hope you find this educational, instructive and definitive, and if you do not, then please consider lowering your standards.

Here is my take on...

...superfoods: So, I have been told that there are these foods that are labelled "super" as they are really good for you. I don't have a problem with that per se, except that it seems like a very exclusive group, or club that is really hard to join and I just happen to have a thing against those kind of clubs. You know the ones I'm talking about - those ones where if you don't have the right clothes, or car or annoying accent, you can't get in. And now some genius thought up one for foods?!?!? Sounds unnecessarily elitist to me - who did those foods (or the more human members of its fan club) have to pay off to get in? And if it was the foods themselves doing the paying off, then "how" is my next question. By now, we all know the members of this clique: the "unblemished" blueberries, the "incandescent" kale, "accented" acai berries, the "bedazzling" broccoli, the "king kong"quinoa. If I was one of those previously-thought-highly-of foods that didn't receive an invite, I'd be fairly annoyed. "Like what is so wrong with me?" I'd think "Just yesterday we were all pals in the garden or the grocery store and now today you are walking around like you own the place. And another thing, how and when did you start walking?!?!" I just don't know if creating a manufactured divide amongst foods is the way to go - anyone remember the caste system? Another thought is once you are a member of this club, can you leave? Are you always super? Do they get time off to just be a regular veggie and visit the relatives? If not, it is more of a prison and less of a club. I want to come out right now and say that I am staunchly against imprisoning food! There is no way that is a good use of my tax dollars. The "super" part also seems to be wildly misleading. It makes it sound, to someone like me who goes out of his way to be as literal and easily misled as possible, that the foods are not only good for me but that they also have powers. I would love for my food to have powers, although it may make me contemplate eating them for their nutritional value or only using them for their powers. And when I say "using", I don't want it to sound like I would be a malevolent master and the food my lowly slave - do I look like I could be that evil and have a slave? Don't answer that! That day, last week, when you saw me I didn't have any beauty time in the morning - doesn't mean I am pro-food-slavery. Also, I may be "way out there" and considered a little "off" and "one to keep an eye on" (only when you aren't in the middle of a two-eye activity - I don't mind you watching, just don't get hurt. Safety first!) but I am way above being an evil master or even a good master to some food. I'm not that weird. Or I guess I should say not that weird anymore. Thank you Doctor Evans and the wonderful Nurse Peters!

...gravel: In one sense gravel is just a field of small rocks and if that is how you see them that is all well and good. Honestly, I don't know how you can sleep at night. Uh huh? Oh really? You put your pillow over there and your alarm clock too? Well, now I know - thanks for sharing! With those images in my head, I don't think I'll be sleeping much for a few nights now. Back to the gravel. Don't you see that if seen very close up gravel is essentially the same as a bunch of big, scary rocks seen from quite a distance? And, if that doesn't freak you out, the next time you walk by a field of gravel, I challenge you to get down on your knees or, better yet, get off your high horse (word to the wise: that ridiculously large horse you prance around on looks out of place and makes you appear aristocratic and hard to approach. If those were your goals all along, kudos to you) lay down and get yourself a bit dirty and what will you observe? Those tiny, completely-innocent looking pieces of gravel look like big old, grown-up rocks and boulders from your new perspective. Either way you look at it, don't underestimate these pebbles we are "using" to cheaply cover our elementary school playgrounds with- they are not just small, less powerful and intimidating rocks (I mean they are that, just not only that). I believe they hold within them the ability to be so much more and if we sit back and relax and incessantly sip our iced tea as our elected officials insist (all-the-while denying us enough requisite sugar to make the drink at all palatable - I don't know about you, but I voted for those officials as I believed they would be a whole lot more liberal in the dispensing of sweeteners) then those pieces of gravel may have the last laugh (or one of the last laughs if I happen to be in a particularly laughing mood that day). It also bothers me that no one holds gravel in high regard or has even attempted to hold it in high regard or any level of regard. It is the least we can do and sometimes it is important to do our least except when there is a potential for free kittens or when there is a potential gas leak and then we should always do our most or at least appear to do our most before fleeing the scene. During elementary school, many a day was spent running up and down the school gravel field kicking balls (or having a series of balls kicked at me repeatedly of which I only partially deserved) both real and imaginary. So much of my youth was spent on or in the vicinity of gravel and though I stood there on many occasions breathing through my mouth (I had yet to learn to nose breath), inhaling in copious amounts of dust and then sneezing and wheezing for hours afterwards, I never blamed the gravel or the men and women from the gravel manufacturing plant or those who made the decision that a grass field was either too aesthetically pleasing or too expensive, no, I blamed my cousin from Philadelphia. What a piece of work that guy is - let me tell you! I'm pretty sure he hates gravel as well.

...glossy photographs: I need to set the record straight, I'm not against glossy photographs at all. I am just not a big fan because, as an already glossily-foreheaded person, glossy photographs just accentuate my already way-too-shiny features making me look more surreal than I can handle. And I have quite the surreal threshold in the first place. I can see how a matte finish is helpful for some of you with a "cloudy" complexion who are looking to appear more exciting in photo albums your descendants may be forced to look at when visiting their grandparents, but for those of us who have no problem with sheen, gloss just seems redundant and quite wasteful and I, for one, am thinking of the little children at home all alone while their parents are slaving away working overtime at the glossy photo paper finishing plant just so little Bobby and Susie can have sturgeon caviar on their blinis or the newest video game where a team of Navy Seals slaughter surprisingly sentient killer whales who are determined to enslave all of our sturgeon and put a moratorium on all blini and other pancake production thus driving up worldwide production of waffles and french toast just after they purchased all breakfast diners. I am sorry if I think it is more important for those kids to have parental supervision so they can't eat all of the frosting or at least spread out the consumption of the frosting over a week or just spread it out on some cake to at least reduce the sheer amount of frosting in any one sitting. I just think allowing too much frosting isn't sending the right message to the youth of today, just like too much gloss is sending the wrong message to whom or whatever beings find remnants of our photographs sometime in the far future. The great-grandchildren of our great-grandchildren will hope that the alien oppressors, who are pretty nice considering they are in the world-taking-over-enslaving-great-grandchildren racket, are impressed with the pictures they find and don't just toss them into the proverbial fire or any actual fire as I often do if I happen to have extra photos stuffed in my pocket when I happen to walk past a dwindling fire that needs something, anything, to keep going. True story: I often stuff my pockets with paper and photographs in an ill-advised, poorly-thought-through attempt at cheap insulation - instead of making me warmer, it makes me just wish I had purchased both the discounted high-powered shredder and the matching leg-warmer/sweater combo that I turned down as I really wanted to impress my friend who is quite against sweaters for reasons that are either beyond me or ones I haven't quite got to yet on this long highway called life.

...reigns of terror: Now don't get me wrong, I hate terror. Actually, that's not strong enough, I abhor terror in all of its forms. Even the word terror makes it sound scary  -good job whomever named it, but bad job whomever came up with the concept and then sold it to the highest bidder. Reigns, on the other hand, aren't all that bad. There can be good reigns, but for some reason they are usually associated with things we don't like: terror, fear, overt politeness. As far as established reigns go, reigns of terror are definitely in my bottom 5 and have next to no chance of moving up unless some of the other slightly more popular reigns take a turn for the worse and drop in popularity (I'm looking at you reigns of maniacal iron workers, bacterial growth, and sweet pickles and their bastardized cousin, relish). One reign that is good are reigns of rain as that is good for the crops. I try to always consider the crops and the farmers who reap them. Although, reign implies that it goes on for a long time and that it is both unwanted and forced on us. I don't love rain, but it is okay. However, if all of a sudden rain took a turn to the darkside and went on for a very long time, stayed when it was no longer wanted and forced itself on us even when we were screaming and crying for enough then I would have to contemplate changing my opinion of it. I'm directly implying that rain would have to be aware of its own reign and I have no evidence that that is at all possible, but I'm not ruling it out either. I have learned the hard way not to rule things out (I actually threw away all of my rulers and straight edges in hopes to avoid this). Anyways, reigns of terror really suck - they make life much less enjoyable (unless you are in charge, but then you have no real friends) and they make it very hard to keep dentist appointments and trips to the florist.Taking a historical perspective, reigns of terror started out on a relatively good note. They were initially very useful in keeping otherwise peaceful, well-behaved agrarian societies from causing too many problems, which they were prone to do - must have been the way they looked at everyone sideways. The reigns of terror came in and they helped create great monuments and other important civic structures by tearing the ridiculously lazy townsfolk away from their kilns, hearths and doll shops and putting them to work with the only known con being lots and lots of sweat and the occasional owie. Now, this was all well and good until reigns of terror were taken over by some really not so great people who took all of the amazingly great things about them and added in all of the killing and the blood. They claimed they were putting the capital T in terror and that before the terror should have really had quotation marks around it, which was quite a novel suggestion as it was at least two centuries before that really caught on as a way of speaking sarcastically. Once lives were lost, reigns of terror lost any chance at being remembered fondly or remembered at all, what with the death and all  -aside from the really amazing clothes and sense of style the rulers had. I'm not sure why there is often a direct correlation between megalomania and power and a knack for choosing the correct scarf/sweater combination. Imagine if they had had better childhoods and were hugged more often - they could have been the leaders of the fashion world and been loved and adored by men and women and been the life of the biggest parties in Paris, Milan, Tokyo and New York. But no, they got just a little too carried away with power and trying to crush everyone. "We didn't want to crush you when we were kids, we only wanted to win the soccer game and take the pretty girl to the dance" we'd say to them if we had a chance  -talk about being misunderstood and having them get a tad bit too angry at a fairly easy to solve communication issue. Luckily, they are fewer and far between these days since we are all so civil and mature compared to our ancestors. They were so uncivil and so grayish brown in the photos that have survived. I'm not saying being grayish brown would make you less refined, but it wouldn't help. But, they aren't all gone - there still are some really really bad dudes in power today subjecting their people to horrors and I wouldn't wish reigns of terror upon anyone except for my second cousin, twice removed. He knows what he's done.

...contemporary dance: I guess it was just a matter of time before we had to either phase out or close the door on the era of ancient dance which gave me the energy to get through some tough days growing up. I may understand this natural progression but I just can't say that I am huge fan of this wave of popularity about all things contemporary, especially dance. I may be alone in remembering the glory days of dance gone by, ones that those ultra-modernist culturally snooty elite that we all see around town these days with a scarily, rapidly increasing frequency would like us to conveniently forget. I made a promise to my great aunts-in-law (or to one of my great aunts-in-law as there is a good chance one had a previous engagement as I left the invites to the very last minute. It just slipped my mind as many activities with my great aunts-in-law do- that is the way it is with planning events involving relatively obscure relations) to curtail the amount of information I conveniently forget as it was growing to proportions that could have been troublesome if my troublesome category wasn't full at the moment with a three month wait list. All items/people/objects/metaphysical constructs that appeared to my receptionist (an alphabetical rotation of stuffed animals with size occasional trumping name based completely on the stuffed animals proximity to me which is, in turn, based completely on my dexterity of the moment which is, in turn, based on a random number generator I accidently stumbled upon when I accidently stumbled on my way to the dry pantry for some late-night crackers. My family has quite a intricate history with random numbers that is equal parts incredulous, annoying and demanding-an-amazing-soundtrack-opening-up-multiple-options-for-off-off-broadway-production-if/when-my-obviously-empty-threats-of-an-endless-stream-of-emails-containing-cryptic-codes-of-numbers-that-are-in-fact-generated-randomly-from-a-great-website-I-stumble-upon-from-time-to-time-usually-when-hungry-with-a-hunger-that-only-crackers-stored-dryly-can-come-close-to-satisfying (they do)). But some of you may wonder "what is your issue with contemporary dancing really, or are you just enjoying a few moments in the spotlight?" To which I answer (after hours practicing in said spotlight which drove up my electricity bill to previously unforeseen heights that make me briefly question if a limelight would have been more cost-effective) it is highly possible that my "issue" (to use your word, and I am trying as often as I can to use other people's words when talking instead of my previous practice of using their numbers which almost always caused them to raise a red flag which was a problem at first because no one had one, but that was quickly solved as it had given me a great idea for birthday presents and allowed me to clear the spare bedroom of all of those extra red flags I was keeping on hand "just in case") with contemporary dates back to my youth when my father, a contemporary dancer's contemporary dancer, was shunned and isolated by a clique of popular, mean contemporary dancers - they wouldn't even give him the time of day! And while it is true that neither them nor he really understood what that meant, it hurt him as did many other abstract expressions when used verbally by dancers and other artists towards him. I was too young at the time to do anything about it, but I remember him coming home, dejected and spending hours gracefully and beautifully moving about the house to somber, yet uplifting music usually featuring the piano, and feeling his pain and anguish and I remember vowing to bring down contemporary dance from the outside as I have always avoided being inside on sunny days.

This Beautiful Union

I remember the day they were born like it was yesterday. Two beautiful babies - one a girl and one a boy. From the beginning they were inseparable and were, to use a cliche, like two peas in a pod. As the older sibling, I was often charged with watching them and, though I was cut of the same cloth, there was always a distance. As they grew into young children there was a verging-on-unhealthy closeness that teachers, neighbours and others spoke of in hushed and concerned voices, often while consuming tea and, on one rare occasion, scalding hot apple cider. Mom and dad were so in love with all of us and, in their eyes, the twins could do no wrong. In adolescence, they remained close but also knew all of the buttons to press to antagonize the other. They were still each other's best friend and that would never change.

The past

My brother loved making chocolate chip cookies with mom on Sunday afternoons.

My sister preferred eating ones of the oatmeal raisin variety.

Many of their wounds, figurative and literal, self-inflicted and lashing out at the other, were healed over a plate of mixed cookies.

My sister used to swing on the ol' tire swing for hours.
My brother preferred to keep track of things in either minutes or portions of days.
And yet, that swing became a symbol, albeit a moldy and decrepit symbol, for the bond they shared.

My brother attempted to build historically accurate forts out of the couch cushions.

My sister eschewed the architectural advances of the past and employed only modern fort designs.

Regardless of the difference in style, their forts only served to strengthen our overall home defense yet they rendered our couch nearly un-sittable.

My sister created amazingly detailed fairy tale stories in which she usually played the queen.

My brother constantly questioned the validity of her rise to the throne.

Though they would attempt to laugh about this, her flamboyantly fictional royalty only served to make him question his own creativity and lineage.

My brother designed fairly amateurish and structurally flawed sand castles.

My sister played the role of the forlorn duchess who lost her family when the castle walls came tumbling down.

Both kids grew up with an unhealthy lack of respect for the integrity of all walls leading to much hilarity and mental-health concerns for all.

I remember the day of their high school graduation as if it were yesterday. It was last week. I had always wondered, as I observed them growing up, what sort of adults they would become and whether one could live or be happy without the other. With their bright futures in front of them, family dinner table discussions turned from teenage issues to much more adult topics - college, work, loans, travel and yet, I still saw, in front of me, those same two babies who were figuratively joined at the hip. Much to mom and dad's delight and relief, they decided to stay at home and attend the local community college. I couldn't imagine a future where they weren't together. While their interests and future plans had diverged somewhat and each had really started to act as an individual, they were still eerily similar and a perfect foil for each other. 

The present 

My sister fills notebook after notebook with concentric circles that look like Venn diagrams when viewed with squinted eyes from a distance.

My brother tried, on multiple occasions, to pay his rent by selling these completed notebooks to both circle fanatics and Venn diagram enthusiasts alike.

Many a Sunday evening was spent at the kitchen table debating and discussing the merits of intersections and unions specifically and the political implications of sets in general.

My brother is trying to reduce his footprint.
My sister carries a small pouch of fine carbon powder scattering it where she thinks he may walk next.
They spend hours upon hours drawing pictures of bowls of fruit with charcoal often disagreeing on proper shading techniques and the importance of perspective.

My sister reads obsessively as if glued to her book.
My brother is always trying to sneak around the house gluing things to her, or failing that, using heavy-duty packing tape.
They were always gluing and taping things to each other and yet neither wanted to be actually stuck to the other, unless entered in a three-legged race and then only the highest quality adhesives could be used.

My brother is studying and preparing to be a nurse with a heart of gold.
My sister can't stop mocking his attempts to study medicine, all the while keeping very close watch on the price of valuable metals.  
Secretly they both hope that one day, his nursing skills may come in handy, and if not, they will always have the mocking and, if very desperate, some gold.

My sister fills pages of her private journal with poems about love and loss.
My brother has to continue to come up with ways to both love and lose in his life to feed her fresh material.
The poems become not only a reflection of his life, but also a refraction due to an incorrectly placed set of mirrors in his room.

I often wonder what the future will hold for them. I can only hope and imagine that whatever lies ahead for each, that they will always be intertwined with the other. They will forever be each other's yin and yang. But what, precisely will they do? Will they become a team of doctors who travel to the deep recesses of impoverished countries? Will they host a morning radio show displaying incessant wit and annoying insight on a daily basis? Will they become feared and revered tag-team professional wrestlers with a propensity for choke-holds? Will they pen and illustrate a series of children's books rife with cute animal characters and moralistic messages? Will they dig graves? All I know is that I hope that they never lose their sense of humour, their spirit and their drive and that I am able to experience, firsthand, their futures.

The future

My brother plans to give away all of his worldly possessions.

My sister has been carefully implanting that idea in him for months through a series of homemade subliminal audio cassettes.

They were raised to both respect and uncover creative uses for implanting and all implant-related activities and enterprises (the utilization of audio cassettes was quite a bold move, as our father had forbade that).

My sister dreams of growing a garden full of the freshest, tastiest vegetables.
My brother already has plans to can those fresh vegetables to survive the impending nuclear winter or for profit.
Food in general and vegetables in specific will always be a source of strength for the two of them mostly after they are digested and occasionally as weapons.

My brother wishes that one day he can own his own house in the countryside.
My sister plans to first appear supportive and then swoop in and outbid him and buy the house first allowing him to rent the barn.
Their competitiveness, especially as it pertains to large, shelter-like purchases could be seen as quaint or sweet, but that would be vastly confusing.

My sister hopes to learn to play the alto saxophone so that she can truly express herself.
My brother is okay with her desire to play the sax, but cannot forget the pain he experienced due to her last round of true expression.

Jazz music will always be the soundtrack of their lives. My dad saw to that himself.

My brother plans to teach his future children how to play tennis with his compelling mix of passion, humour and a deranged desire to crush everyone.
My sister appreciates his passion, loves his humour and respects his deranged desire, but is just not supportive at all of plan to have children, especially tennis-playing ones.
Neither of them will ever forget the often understated role that that banged-up, over-sized Prince tennis racquet playing in their upbringing and how it essentially raised them both.

I know this beautiful union must one day end. I dream that, far in the future, we can all be together again, as we were as children. I imagine that I will always feel a little separate from those two, as if I missed out on a long-standing private joke. They will make eye-contact that will tell thousand-word stories and I, always the observer, will watch, both proud and feeling somewhat isolated. As we all near the end of our existence, a new door will open and we will all go through that door to the unknown, and yet, their connection will never waver. At times I wonder what could have been, but I do know that when I look back on this whole thing, I'm just glad I was along for the ride.

Things I Really Appreciate

I really appreciate the first taste of freshly squeezed orange juice first thing in the morning. Sweet, tangy, full of citric acid and vitamins and I enjoy it up to the point, but not past, when I have saturated my senses with juice and I sink into a state of delirium where I imagine I am being chased by an army of oranges riding larger, horse-like oranges hurling smaller, grenade-like oranges at me and all three sizes and genres of oranges have fully-equipped faces including adorable eyes and curly moustaches that would look appropriate on certain French chefs.

I also appreciate orangutans as I'm fairly sure it would be unwise not too.

I really appreciate chalk for providing me a means to communicate messages via sidewalk, the least transportable, but often times, the most convenient method of communicating. Many of my most interesting, thought-provoking and meaningful communiques have been delivered on the sidewalk - what can I say, hardened concrete inspires me and it always will. I also like having my body traced as if I were a victim at a taped-off police crime scene as I believe in being prepared for just about any situation that involves chalk and sidewalks.

It is hard not to appreciate a really comfortable couch - soft, cozy, relaxing - all the things the couch in my living room is not - it is almost as if I have the couch who was excommunicated from the wonderful land of the couches, and the monarchy that was fair and just for all, for being abrasive, rude, practicing witchcraft and always talking in jealous tones about how many of the couches who walked around so superior like were just glorified and oversized chairs in the big scheme of things. I understand that this thought is still relatively unformed and in its' infancy - I'll work on it more and flesh it out when I have that comfortable couch.

I have grown to appreciate fans overtime and have progressed from barely being able to handle using one small fan on particularly hot summer days to the present where I have filled every square inch of my house with super high-powered fans that make it next to impossible to make my hair at all presentable but with the upside of making things extremely light and breezy that I haven't sweated inside my house in years and have literally flown from room to room.

I truly appreciate great art including anatomically-correct sculptures of human beings especially the ones that teach at the local community college - I owe everything I know to those walking, talking and well-dressed moving pieces of three-dimensional art. It's also highly possible that they are, in fact, just actual people who work as instructors, and if that is true, they are now even less interesting than before. Here's hoping they are sculptures.

I can't stop talking about how much I appreciate the word "the" and to show my appreciation I have created a musical comedy/multimedia presentation featuring hand puppets and an interactive slide show that is both highly controversial and overly sentimental. The show takes the audience through the sordid history of "the" from infancy through it's present-day mature adult who dresses and acts about 10 years younger then it really is which is both embarrassing and humourous for it's friends "and", "then" and "yet". The show highlights certain times in the life of "the" including "the's" rebellious youth (wanted to go by solely "T"), the radical period in it's 20s (started wearing berets, shades and listening to jazz) and  "the's" middle-life crisis when it felt that half of its' life was wasted and wished more time had been spent travelling, spending time with family and charging for each written use of itself. The show ends with an allegorical act making a commentary on the role "the" has played both in the rise of the humans and our eventual fall.

I appreciate one of nature's little miracles, the squirrel, always running, jumping, bouncing and looking for food and dancing beautifully with a reckless abandon to the songs of nature and Mother Earth or they could just be jumpy and nervous and need to relax more.

I truly appreciate my eyes for granting all that wish to pay the $25 access fee for a view through the window to my soul - for only an extra $5 you can look into my ears where I believe there may be enough free wax to go around.

I really appreciate the lock on the door of the room I am locked inside of as I am attempting to see the positives in everything and I have learned the hard way that just staying angry, especially at inanimate objects like this lock, are a waste of energy - "it isn't the lock's fault" I tell myself, although in moments of anguish and frustration, I just want to smash it to bits right before trying to befriend it.

It is hard not to appreciate the gentle background buzzing of a far off group of bees - so calming, so pleasant and such a perfect natural soundtrack for me to enjoy while I lean back and enjoy eating spoonfuls of sweet, thick honey while sitting in my favour spot surrounded by clovers and other flowers almost literally dripping with nectar. I don't have a care in the world and nothing bad is going to happen to me today, I just know it....Is it just me or is the buzzing getting louder and more intense? No matter, nothing is going to disrupt my peace and my pure enjoyment of this magical honey.

I really appreciate the glass of water I have in front of me that I plan to start drinking out of momentarily. It is currently so full, almost bursting with water and a such a picture of perfection that I just can't get myself to take the first sip even though my lips are chapped, my throat is dry and my headache is growing worse by the minute. I look around and admire my room that is literally full of glass upon glass of crystal-clear, very-drinkable water and beam like only a proud father could.

I also appreciate objects, unlike me, with thick skins such as unripened bananas and my great uncle Larry. There is just so much I can learn from these two about not letting little things get to me and letting small annoyances roll off my shoulders, and in exchange I believe I can teach them all about the wonders of becoming yellow and edible as well as the fact that the war ended decades ago. 

I have grown to appreciate pond scum and am working hard at learning to appreciate all types of scum as I don't want to give the appearance that I am playing favourites.

I just totally appreciate dresses and the whole worldwide dress-designing and making industry. These expert dress people are so skilled, what with the measuring, the sewing, the careful-determining-of-profit-margins-to-arrive-at-slightly-unfair-but-not-enough-so-to-raise-the-alarm-that-was-built-just-for-potentially-price-gouging-moments-like-this-because-if-it-did-it-would-cause-a-revolution prices and the bringing of smiles to women both young and old around the world and also to admirers-from-afar like me with closet-room to spare and really poor decision making when it comes to saving, investing and spending my hard-earned money. When I need to drown my sorrows for being broke, I just sit in my closet and rub the soft fabric of these dresses on my face and neck and I feel so alive.

I have a deep appreciation for things that appreciate in value like my collection of rare stamps, my never-used expensive Italian car, my big bag of polished chicken bones and the unopened bottle of apple juice I'm holding and considering saving and selling to the highest bidder during the rapture. There is a chance the bones are worthless and, in that case, at least I need to find a new item that will appreciate to maintain my minimum quota and to cook less chicken as the bones are worthless and I am a vegetarian anyways.

I will always appreciate leaps of faith as they are daring, exciting and breathtaking and can be done both blindfolded and partially asleep while also involving next to zero actual faith in anything at all (believe me, I asked around and most people just nodded their heads and took the first bus uptown) or belief in anything outside of what I can directly experience.

I completely appreciate dots for their simplicity, for helping me either end or extend sentences, for dancing in front of my eyes and keeping things optically interesting, for their freckleness and for appropriately always paying homage to their ancestors the circle and, the infinitely more exciting, rings.

I will always appreciate where I have come from and the people who helped me leave there and get to where I am now. Thank you from the bottom of my heart- I couldn't get out of that sink hole fast enough. 

I appreciate the simple things in life and the ridiculously, mind-numbing, hair-pulling-out complex things as well as some of the things in between except of course: congealed chicken fat (unless there is about to be a food fight or prizes are about to be awarded for the greatest array of fats), excessive punctuation (I have always believed that if you can't express something with three punctuation marks or less it isn't worth expressing and you should probably just calm down), watching paint dry (or just watching paint in any stage of being made, bought, applied, dried, and waiting until the onset of the eventual peeling which will lead to scraping it all off and starting again - once you are in, it is an endless loop of horrible and mind-suckingly boring experiences all involving paint), the letter 'm' (it just seems like an inverted w and it is fully aware of that), bats (no explanation needed aside from my tears), periods of silence (it all depends on how long the periods are and how much and what quality of noise I will be treated to afterwards) and those rows and rows and rows of white pillars that I must run amongst for what seems like years and years all the while being pelted with rain and snow and sleet while also dealing with the teeth rattling-screeching of the hundreds and hundreds of black menacing birds by air and the unbelievably large, blood-thirsty wolves and coyotes by land and having to make split second decision after split second decision with the adrenalin pumping and the heart racing and the excessive sweating overwhelming my body. That's right, I appreciate everything but those things.

More About Me

Who am I, people may be starting to wonder? And now that I ask the question, I am also pondering this. It would be great if one of you would just tell me, or at least set-up an intricate set of puzzles and challenges that would reveal who I am upon solution. I love puzzles, especially the kind that involve dressing up as pieces of fruit for no apparent reason aside from keeping the guy who lives downstairs happy. What a funny, appreciator of people-dressing-up-as-fruit-as-a-seemingly-unconnected-yet-connected-piece-of-a-puzzle my neighbour is. But, again, who am I? Any progress on one of you telling me? No?....Fine then, in my estimation I have two choices, I can either undertake some honest self-reflection in this piece of writing or I can go off on ridiculous tangents that neither answer that question nor answer any question - in fact sometimes I go out of my way to intentionally create tangents and asides just to spite those who aim to use me and my beliefs to answer their questions! How lazy can you get? Oops! Sorry -that sounded a little too harsh and would have only been appropriate if I was your mom, and I am definitely not your mom, although with some coaxing (read "money in large denominations" or "a new hat that would give me the illusion of being Cuban") I am happy to try - although I must tell you that I refuse to excessively praise you or say you look beautiful when only a mother would more than once a day. Any more than that would sicken me and you don't want to be around when I am sickened - really, it is quite gross and pungent. I believe that the truth and nothing but the truth may be "good for me" or "less bad than a number of the alternatives including but not limited to half-truths, quarter-truths (I'm also looking for ways to divide truths into even smaller fractions - can you imagine a twentieth of the truth? Would that even seem at all similar to the truth? If time permits, I'm also possibly looking to express truths as rational numbers that would look good printed on coffee mugs of mathematicians who tell less than the whole truth) and wearing purple socks ironically" especially when accompanied by a glass of soda and one of those singing trouts to mount on the wall. I once met a man but that is just not important right now. Another time I met a different man who tried living his life telling over 100% of the truth all the time and it nearly killed him. Well that and all of those angry, angry truth-defiling sharks. Plus, me being truthful and showing what is really inside my brain would be interesting for most people especially neuroscientists and the men/women/manchilds/half-man half-lions who love them or at least tolerate them what with their braininess and their constant questioning and that annoying, hard-to-place European accent that makes them sound either smarter or European or like a scary plastic surgeon - believe me I know. For most other people, seeing what is inside my brain would cause you to have nightmares for weeks. Yes, if I explore the honesty route, then quite possibly professionals in white lab coats, who are genuinely concerned and looking for more subjects (and objects - I can do both! No extra charge!) for their longitudinal and qualitative research paper will sign me up and hook me up to numerous electrodes and be given free pizza or at least scratch-n-sniff stickers that smell like pizza or I'd even settle for some regular stickers. I am happy to oblige, although oblige may be the wrong word  -it is an area I need to improve upon. I imagine those professionals go home, take off their white lab coats and, after feeding their dogs and their human families and then their sim family in the video games that occupy most of their free time (in that order) they take off their coats, momentarily freed from the world of the coat and all of the rules and societal pressures and tears often role down their cheeks when they remember when they used to dream of unicorns and leprechauns who were plotting to implement phase one of their plan to take the rest of us down and they'd also dream of a life where they would have an option to wear a coat or not and when choosing to, it could be the colour of their choice.

Who is this man (its me!) behind the words and are there other, more remote words that are also behind him? Maybe those words are worth reading. I'll try to look over my shoulder or construct a series of mirrors or just turn around when I take a break and I'll let you know. If I decide to forgo the truth about me and instead go the weird-tangent route then it is because I've come to the conclusion that I must protect my true self sort of like a turtle, except that I'm trying to resist using any tortoise-related analogies at least until the next full moon or until my new shipment of multi-coloured erasers arrives. I sometimes set out trying with the best intentions to be serious and normal and to be less weird and crazy sounding and then something happens. It is hard to explain. It is sort of like the normal writing is a boat, let's say a cruise ship (no that sounds too hoity-toity  -do you want everyone thinking you are an elitist snob? No, but it is totally fine for everyone to think that I write/talk to myself? Good thinking.) - okay how about a yacht (much better...you either have no idea how to avoid sounding elitist or are doing it  just to bug me knowing how much I have a soft spot for those that write like they are oh so upper-class). Anyways, the honest, normal writing is a boat and the weirder and funnier (read "less marketable" or "impressive if written by a 9 year old") writing is like a large jar of glue which is either holding the boat together or being sniffed ad nauseum by the sailors. And the wacko parties they have after sniffing that glue...I'm not exactly how that analogy works and what it all means - and I wrote it! Imagine how you must feel! On an aside, I once spent a whole weekend trying to figure out how someone else felt and it just made me hungry for sushi - it turns out they felt a little bit annoyed (I was staring and making a series of sketches that I later on had no success selling at popular tourist destinations around town as they came off looking a bit too haunting and green - I only had one crayon) and a little bit melancholic, which I never would have guessed as I needed a dictionary to even have any idea what that even meant, and even after looking it up and reading about it extensively on the internet, I still think they made it up. Back to the boat being the writing - let's just imagine that that was true. Work with me for a minute....so there is this boat ("the writing") and it is a mighty fine boat and it has set sail for somewhere...let's say the Promised Land or a convention for the annual meeting of ornithologists or Guam and the boat sets sail and for the first few days things are very uneventful. There are the usual hijinks you would imagine - a glass-blowing contest, staying up till midnight when the captain required sailors stay up till three or until the next shift showed up mostly to be on guard for pirates, and shaving each other's backs to make learning Spanish more enjoyable (which is hard to do - it is already very enjoyable, or so I've heard from my neighbours who are learning Spanish and can never stop smiling. Having said that, they were always smiling and they could just be like that - always smiling. God, they are annoying! But, multilingual - so I'll have to give them that). And then the storm hits and rocks the boat ("the writing") and luckily the crew has just come from a big sale of glue ("the weird stuff") and have no real concept on how to react to the storm and out comes the glue. Now we all know that I could go on and on about the boat and the glue and use a ridiculous amount of unnecessary detail to try to make this totally superfluous analogy work and we all know that I would never quite do this and wouldn't care as that was never the point in the first place which would raise the salient question over my use and abuse of analogies in the first place and whether I totally understand their use at all and if I should just spend the money and take a course once and for all - one that would force me to learn or make me conform or at least smell better. Or maybe the analogy is a living entity itself (it isn't) and it wants to corrupt or feed off the story (it doesn't) and once it has done so it may find a way into my brain and start setting up camp - this makes even less sense then even the average nonsensical stuff that you are expecting to read and it would be correct to wonder if I am okay and whether I need to lie down for a while and think about elephants or to actually make a few phone calls and get some elephants delivered so I can stroke their big, floppy, ears that just go on and on for ever - I could just wrap myself up in their ears and drift off as a happy as a clam and not just a run-of-the-mill clam either- I'm talking top clam here. 

I think I am a pretty regular and normal guy, although, having said that, it is all relative. Compared to some people I'm all wacko and a few phone calls away from being removed with the upside being becoming a well-compensated spoken word performer for the king of some hard-to-pronounce Eastern European kingdom or for a guy calling himself the king with little-to-no competition for the title from others as the country had been converted to a republic in a bloodless, coup-less good natured discussion that was over early so they all went out for ribs that were unfortunately substandard (they had discussed having bloody coup but everyone was quite squeamish). And to others I'm almost hyper-normal - sort of like the most normal person you know (right- that guy) only much more normal. When the decision came down to use the words hyper and normal together as a contrast to the weird part of this paragraph I was also drinking raspberry-cranberry juice and contemplating going for a run - I decided against it as it is very hard to write while running and even if I could I would either break out laughing or the writing would be completely unreadable and that is saying something as I would be typing and I use autocorrect. I have wondered if who I am in real life is the same as who I show myself to be in my writing. Do I come across as weirder on purpose or maybe to make myself look good? Do I think that is actually happening? Can I really create funny and odd writing that would have an effect on how someone sees me? And would it actually either trick them into thinking I now look good or would they see me as good in comparison to the writing - I hope I look better than the words I write, or at least in the same ballpark. Maybe who you see come out in the writing is my true inner self who I've kept locked away for years and is finally enjoying the blue skies, fresh air and focaccia bread (which will be store bought-  I'm sorry, not wasting my talents and time making homemade focaccia, at least not until I buy some new, masculine-looking, leggings, which may take some time based on current fashion trends and my own struggles with appearing masculine that I am blaming on the lighting in my house). The problem is (according to my wife) that I am almost addicted to being literal and odd. To set things straight, I am not addicted to it. I mean, I can walk away any time and not be literal and not get a case of the shakes or the jimmies. And I don't have to be odd in the same way that I don't have to cut or brush my hair and I can either grow a super-awesome afro or have dreadlocks. I really don't know what happens. Honestly, I don't. I often set out saying to myself "this next piece of writing will be non-weird - the kind I could show my grandmother, or someone else's grandmother if the two of them were chilling together reading creative writing on the internet. On second thought, that will never happen. Although, I've been raised to believe the impossible and if I can dream it, then it can happen. What was I writing about again? Oh well - open the flood gates!". So, I want to be normal and then some crazy force, either internal or external or a combination of the two collude where the two join forces to take me down! Why is everyone trying to join forces to take me down! (What? Are you saying this isn't happening? That it's all in my imagination? Wow...quite the imagination I've got. Good job me. I can sit back in revel in that for a while. I had nothing to do this Friday anyways.) Anyways, the writing often starts out along a straight path before it goes all haywire and fun and I start laughing and loving the strangeness and all connection to reality is long gone (reality is lying by the pool enjoying a cool drink and contemplating a swim before hitting the restaurant for some lightly-seared scallops in a wonderful beurre blanc). On second thought (it could be my fourth or fifth, I lost count - that's how it is with thoughts, so hard to keep track of unless I could come up with a numbering system or get them to line-up outside my brain like kindergarteners coming back from a recess of splashing in puddles and sharing their peanut-laden snacks with a willy-nilly disregard for allergies), who wants to be normal? When I was in my 20s I used to take being called normal as a criticism or a put-down and I am still that same guy, or just an older version of that guy with a depressingly smaller afro (some would say no afro and they would be depressingly correct) and a more refined taste for bitter foods (those two things may be connected on some level  -or could be connected -don't think I can't! I should have a Ph.D in making connections between things that others think can't be connected). So, it is totally incorrect and misleading (at the same time - I am crazy like that) to describe the process as poor little old helpless me being ambushed or attacked or beaten around the face and neck by strangeness. I am a willing participant and I welcome the diversion from regular stuff and thinking - it is inside me and I am far from blocking it's rise to the forefront - I bought it an annual first-class ticket on the train and it is riding that train all night long! That's right, baby! Ride that train like the badass you are! I'm not totally sure how bad-ass riding a train in first class actually is what with the pampering and tea and crumpets. Never been there or done that. Maybe a better way of looking at it is as a prison break, but that would be comparing my mind to a prison or maybe it is not a comparison and my brain is an actual prison. I don't think so, as nothing and no idea is trapped there against their will. Possibly it is better to describe it as a voluntary mental institution where everyone can check in and out whenever they see fit. My words and ideas can come and go as they want, have guests, roam the grounds, catch a show and just obey the curfew, because if you don't I can't be responsible for what happens. I mean I could be responsible, but I'm usually asleep at that time which makes the consequences for missing curfew up to my cat and my cat has a lot of pent up anger and aggression probably stemming from a past life as a mole. I totally get that comparing my mind to a psych ward is far from complimentary for me or for psych wards themselves - no one said that this writing thing was going to be full of compliments. 

Here is what you should know about me as it is both revealing and strangely not-revealing at all as that is almost impossible to do in a blog with no pictures. I do not profess to conquer the impossible with this blog, but if that was to happen coincidentally then I will gladly take full credit. I have been known to revel in coincidental accomplishments and, in case you missed those times, will gladly do it again. Let's get to some juicy details about me, which is tough because I have reduced my juice intake a great deal and that includes intake through the mouth, ears and eyes (sometimes I was very inaccurate with my pouring skills, missing holes where juice could flow into and instead relying on the absorption rate of my skin  - I owe my skin so much. Remind me to thank it sometime. What's that you say - I should do it now as there is no time like the present? I guess, but between you and me I just don't feel comfortable thanking my skin in while everyone is listening - it's personal.) Here we go - I love hitting things with racquets - usually balls, but I am willing to hit whatever comes my way and I often walk up and down the streets (I'd call it roaming the streets but I signed that court order saying that I would stop roaming and that I would also stop calling it roaming), racquet cocked, just ready to hit things. I do this as I heard that this is what some world champion tennis players did in their youth although I never quite believed it, I'm not in my youth and I'm pretty sure they weren't wearing nothing but goggles and shockingly tight underwear while doing it. In all seriousness I love playing squash and tennis and have done both for years and am now, as I approach the twilight of my youth, finding great joy playing my two children. My face lights up with pride and pleasure (among other random and fleeting expressions that I have no control over - it's sort of like I'm waiting for the hypnotist to snap his fingers - except that their is no hypnotist and only fingers. Lots and lots of fingers) to see their young, pretty faces in high degrees of anguish as I lead them through hours upon hours of grinding, energy-sapping drills. I kid, I kid, we only play for short periods of time, but they are showing great promise and it feels very dad-like to be on the court with them, which is doing wonders for me and my stock as a dad. If my dad-ness was on the market I would suggest buying now as the stock only goes up every time someone walks by the court as they are probably thinking "now, there's a dad!" unless they happen to wander by when I'm growling at my kids which is highly probable as that makes up much of our on court time. Before you judge, they have requested that I do that as it is a big step up from teaching them using mime or yelling. I am attempting to use less vicious-appearing hand-gestures and high-arching eyebrowed expressions as, again, it does not makes me look good and, in the end, that is essentially what this and everything I do is all about. Anything that does not make me look good is worthless, unless I happen to be making money while doing it and then it does have some worth, just not enough for me. I am a man who prides himself upon extracting and compiling as much worth per minute of each day as I possibly can and, to play racquet sports while doing so. I am joking about the hand-gestures and overuse of eyebrows - I am what you would call a "nice" guy and a "gentle" man and a "proper" person and all things not nice, gentle and proper are either beneath or beyond me - depending on where I hid them and where I happen to be standing. Squash is a wonderful game - I love to run hard, work up a sweat and figure out a strategy that helps me win or at least not only lose all of the time. It can be a lot of work, but I am usually up for the challenge and when it is all over and I sit in the steam room stretching, I feel like I have accomplished something - nothing major like building a fence high enough to keep the prying neighbours from seeing me suntan in my backyard (who am I kidding - I don't tan, I only burn and excuse me, but I like to burn in peace. And yes, I do understand, that in times of war, I should still use an SPF of at least 45). No, the feeling I get after finishing a tough match is more like tying my shoelaces with hands covered in vaseline while swimming away from a playful seal - I have never done this, but it sounds challenging and it is in my current top 10 of completely made up daydream accomplishments. I still haven't decided if I befriend the seal in the end or if the seal is fairly standoffish and turns down my invite for tea. Or if I should give the seal a turn with the shoes - who am I to hog all of the shoe-wearing in this scenario? This is quite different from an actual daydream, as it is purely made up and I'm trying to think about it often enough until the dream just happens and then later on it actually occurs in real life, which is the opposite of how it usually goes down in my life where real events turn into daydreams and then into figments of my imagination. Most of my imaginary friends and possessions used to be real and that is why I cry myself to sleep most nights. For the record, and in case the lawyers need to know, the seal's name is Guido. 

I have always loved cooking. Or more accurately, I have always loved cooking aside from that one week when I was 16, when I just didn't like anything except bouncing a ball against the wall and curling my tongue. There is just something about preparing food that makes me happy. I also love eating the food. I love planning the menus, buying the food, cutting it up, cooking it and feeding the results to my family. I'm not a huge fan of watching the cooked food go into their mouths as that is a little weird and hard on the eyes almost like staring directly at the sun (I do take photos of them eating and stare at them after everyone else has gone to bed which is only slightly less weird or possibly on par), but I like seeing their satisfied faces after consuming the meal. Cooking is a hobby (some people call it a chore and I call talking about those people another hobby although sometimes, when I'm tired, it feels like a chore) and I look forward to taking out the knife and chopping up the vegetables and then watching them fry in the hot oil, defenceless. I also enjoy grating things, which is a welcome break, for all around, from me being the thing that is grating. Seeing the thick, proud, seemingly-impenetrable block of cheese transformed into a mound of small strips provides such a release for me although, I am quite aware that the tables may be turned some day (in fact, we were contemplating rotating them later this week). Someday the cheese may rise and overthrow us. I am expecting it, what with all of the melting and I am just trying to become one of the humans spared - they will need someone to wash the floors. I also feel that there is nothing more pleasing then whisking a thin cheese sauce and watching it thicken on a beautiful autumn afternoon just after the rain has stopped. The loose sauce reminds me of myself in my youth - loose, pretty pale, lacking a sense of fashion, a little lumpy and then the whisk comes along and the sauce metamorphizes into my older self - thick (in a good way - like I'm not just going to start oozing all over the room when company is over, or at least, oozing a lot less then I used to), bubbly, and delicious (I would say so myself, but true story - a random group of religious zealots just happened to stop me on the street the other day and comment on my relative deliciousness apropos to nothing, although I could have been mistaken as they were speaking in what resembled tongues and I was trying not to appear to interested as I have a tendency at being sucked in and idolized by zealots of all shapes and sizes). There is a time and a place for cooking - the time is almost always 9 or 6 and the place is usually the kitchen or, in desperate times, the front hall closet. I hate be restrained (unless there are multiple pigs and a saxophone involved) and I am trying to open up my mind to new times and places to cook. Like why can't I cook at 2am in the bathtub? Or why can't I create a temporal wormhole where time and space lose all meaning?  Or throw away all time pieces and cooking equipment, paint the whole house black, cover ourselves in molasses and let the wrestling begin. We can order in. There may be lots of questions asked. My favourite meal to cook is weekend brunch but I have to qualify that by saying that I was bought off and they got to me. Previously I didn't care for weekend brunch, but after hours of brainwashing and sampling some of the finest brunches in town, I gave in and now I love it. I have always said that if I have to be brainwashed at least let me eat some really good Hollandaise at the same time. So now, I make omelettes, frittatas, smoothies and entree-sized salads with a smile that is very similar to the naked eye to all of my other smiles and even can be mistaken for my grins and smirches as well. Brunch is fleeting and in a blink of an eye it is over especially with certain company who takes more than their share. As for my least favourite? I don't love making school lunches in the evening before going to bed. More accurately they are the bane of my existence mostly because I was advised to have a bane in the first place once I earned enough points to have an existence (and it took a long time, let me tell you). They just go hand in hand I was advised. So when it comes time to make the lunches, I'm tired, it's redundant and I'd rather be watching TV, even a show where they are making school lunches - "poor sap", I'd think, watching that guy on TV making lunches, "stuck making lunches like a loser" I would get close to mumbling before noticing that I too, am a lunch-making loser. At least I have new socks, so there is that. You know I did take exception to be called a "lunch-maker" as I found the term both repulsive and derogatory for reasons that made very little sense and could have just been a result of watching too many gory online videos after making one too many lunches. I also appealed the term loser, but I was told that I had signed the contract and should have paid closer attention to the finer print which is ironic because I am 1/10th finer print by birth. There is a certain amount of power providing sustenance for a group of people - it's almost like "I am allowing you to eat now - pray before me! Which always sounds good in my head or in front of the mirror in my room (that mirror has witnessed many a self-affirming diatribe and now won't settle for anything less or else it will be "too tired" too reflect and will give me a refraction instead which does not do much for my self-esteem), but significantly less when said at the time especially because everyone's mouths are full. I always chicken out and continue to feed those that love me, although I have started to wonder about the relationship between the food I give and the love they return and their relative values and wondering if we could make a killing if we bundled the two together - I did go as far as buying a chart and some over-sized graph paper that is lying in an unused pile in my closet next to my pile of old newspapers just waiting for a paper mache day, my framed portrait of a dog-Mozart (it is so cute sitting at the piano with that look on his face) and my collection of used mops. Those graphs of the food-to-love equations could sell like hotcakes and even more so if we threw in a few hotcakes to sweeten the deal (I would provide some sort of sweetener up to a point and then you'd have to purchase some as honey does not currently grow on trees). Don't get me wrong, I love making food for my family and I don't take the responsibility any lighter than I take any other responsibility (or any heavier - and I have had them weighed - it is usually within 5 lbs) and I don't want or need anything in return except for the occasional series of pats on the head or the back, some unexpected jerky and something to grease my wheels, preferably grease.

I love puzzles of all kinds - crossword, jigsaw, math, ones involving action figures - you name it! Puzzles are fun in-and-of-themselves and also because they make me feel smarter. I'm unsure whether they actually make me smarter, but I don't care - all that matters is how I feel. A few minutes of puzzling and I feel like a new, incrementally smarter, man ready to face the world. But, I don't want puzzles that are too hard as those ones make my head hurt (most likely from all of the banging), cry for my mommy (who never answers my cries!), and feel less smart than I did before. Puzzles that are too easy aren't great either - no, what I'm looking for are ones that are just challenging enough without being an insult to my intelligence and a waste of time or overly frustrating. When I find a puzzle like that and I solve it I am overcome with emotions (I'm usually found weeping like a little boy or bleating like a little lamb or contemplating cooking a nice meal of roast lamb and handing it out to the very first little weeping boy that I see.) My current favourite are large 2000 piece jigsaw puzzles. These puzzles occupy a huge piece of prime real estate on our living room floor for the time I am working on them. I have tried to get lost in a puzzle which is really hard to do seeing as I am quite three dimensional  - I once had this amazing dream where I became two dimensional after a horrible vacuum cleaning incident and was able to live inside the puzzle which I thoroughly enjoyed aside from all of the dust inside the puzzle box until I started missing some of my favourite, three dimensional activities and then I couldn't break free as I had put down a damage deposit for a new two-dimensional living space and had also signed up for some two dimensional pilates classes and wanted to get my money's worth. In the end, I enjoy sitting down and putting some pieces together, standing up and shaking my legs that have fallen asleep and then walking away - I really enjoy walking away and have considered writing a song about it. I could get lost in walking away from puzzles but, thankfully, there are always walls and/or couches to bump into. I also love Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzles. They are the correct level, they make me feel smart while doing them and I love the play on words. For those that are just joining us, I am absolutely taken with wordplay and expressions and these crosswords are right up my alley, which was hard to construct seeing as I live in a townhouse complex where no alley previously existed. It is very probable that I will get fined for the whole alley thing, but I will argue that it was beyond my control, it was my destiny and that the crossword made me do it which is all very hard logic to argue against and believe me I tried throughout my youth with my crazy, crossword-completing, destiny-following, alley-building grandfather. He followed his destiny until his last day at which point he was fairly certain he had made a wrong turn a ways back and also that he should have drank more milkshakes with ground flax seed and kale for the fiber and nutrients. Finally, number puzzles have always been one of my favourite activities. I enjoy "seeing the numbers dance" or dancing myself with stationary numbers all-the-while trying to convince the somewhat shy numbers to come join me on the dance floor. They claim the song is hard to dance to and that I am embarrassing them and that they would rather play a game on their phone. I counter by saying that it is my phone, that they are just numbers and that I should stop conversing with them as people are starting to stare and not that I mind people staring as long as they are doing it for the right reasons - like a perfect cartwheel - those are awesome. Numbers can do almost anything if you believe it, and even more if you sweeten the deal (just don't use anything too sticky). They can add, subtract, multiply and divide all while keeping a straight face and not blushing - very hard to do! They can also sit cross-legged for hours at a time while snake-charming or allowing themselves to be crunched up to a point (even numbers have a breaking point, I have learned the hard way - I wish I still had that 4). Number puzzles are logical, attractive and sharp quite like a take-no-prisoners accountant/model who will file your taxes by day and then hang on your arm at the club at night or like a model/accountant who walks the runway at night and keeps getting hired based on her looks and fired when she can't operate the calculator. I believe I am quite alone in this view of number puzzles and I am also alone right now with my number puzzles and the two of us are a team ready to take on this cold, hard world where letters and pairs of people dominate and aim to keep us down. I am also contemplating going back to school to study either modelling or accounting and eventually writing a thesis on how models/accountants will represent our best chance for survival when the aliens arrive as long as we have constructed enough runways. It's also highly probable, that one day in the near future numbers will rise and all those that fear them will tremble and shiver (we also plan to use a few high-powered wind machines mostly for the effect and also as we may want to take a break and go fly some kites). When the numbers are correctly in their spots and the puzzle is done I often put on a new shirt and then take it off and return it to the store as it is not my colour. What was I thinking when I bought that shirt?

So there you have it. You have now learned a lot more about me - the man behind the writing you probably skim through as it is so long. Why do I have to make it so long? Good question! I will work on making it incrementally shorter each week dropping all that is superfluous and redundant until it is only a series of vowels and periods. I hope you feel that I am relatable, intriguing and human or at least not less of those then before you read this. I am quite relatable - some would say hyper-relatable and others would just refuse to comment. I have an immense amount of respect for those who refuse to comment for reasons that are totally beyond me and I like that arrangement - some things are better left unknown especially the code to my strange uncle's safety deposit box. Can you imagine what sort of weird stuff that guy kept? It is interesting how one comes across compared to how one really is and think of how hard that would be for two or five for that matter. Man, am I glad that I am not 5 people - think of the challenge splitting the bill or playing doubles! And all of the whining! I have been told that I whine enough for 10 people sometimes, which means if I was 5 people that would be like 50 people all whining for more sauce on their noodles or to have a few more minutes in the bath. While on the topic, I am also glad that I am not part man/part cat as I'm sure my cat-side would expect my human side to lick it clean and also for all of the unwanted attention when I'm shopping for clothes or investing money. One day I plan to write a book or just walk with more attitude - either way really. I also think it would be pretty cool to experience incandescence at least for a few minutes. So, what have you learned? I'm all ears - which is completely inaccurate except for the part that are my actual ears and then that is all ear - meaning I would love to know what you all think? I only require you to submit your thoughts in a 15000 word essay using correct APA formatting and references. Now that you know more about me can you help me make it big (I'm pretty sure I will need some gold-plated gloves, a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds and some industrial-strength yarn) or at least bigger (I have some clothes I am still trying to grow into) or failing that, can you help me learn how to whistle and snap my fingers? Once I learn to do those, I will be unstoppable! I'll just walk around whistling a happy tune and snapping and pointing at everyone making the shades and leather jacket-look slightly more tolerable to all of you critics out there always following me around, lurking in corners and critiquing my every move - it is highly probable that this evidence of my over active imagination that is always highlighted by an unhealthy dose of paranoia and superstition. I wish I could find a practical use for paranoia or have it be "cool". Anyways, I am always trying to improve and to grow and to become the best me that I can and I will only settle for second best when all of my sock puppets grant me permission (those sock puppets run a tight ship and leave me in a constant state of fear and with cold feet - all the freakin' time!). Writing this was not at all cathartic for me - sorry - you get what you pay for.

Cool As a Cucumber

People are always advising me to go away from the light and, to the best of my abilities, I always do. If you were observing me do this, most of the time you would just see a regular looking dude just inching away slowly from this massive light. However, one time I did it too quickly and incidentally created a new dance move that is all the rage in the clubs now. It would be a reasonable thought to wonder what a regular guy like me is doing with such a large, bright light anyways - it came with the place.

Out of the mouths of babes comes a whole lot of stuff I've saying super-articulately for years and no one seems to even bat an eyelash. So let me get this straight, I go on and on with all of this hyper-intelligent, nae, mind-blowing, for lack of a better term, art and get nothing from anyone. Then this unnecessarily cute, far from hygienic, young person repackages my brilliance into a few monosyllabic, googily-goo and makes everyone laugh and the world seemingly grinds to a halt. Sorry if I am not impressed, babes. It will take a whole lot more to impress me - although you are very cute, I will concede that. Ride that wave while you can.

I am feeling deflated today, mostly because you misheard my request. I asked to be flattered, not flattened. I do admire your desire to fulfill my request as even when I was screaming for you to stop, you were unrelenting in your mission to flatten me. Probably should get your ears checked and learn to think for yourself especially when someone's insides start oozing out of their body. Now that I'm deflated, I would appreciate you pumping me up - NOT LITERALLY! Put that basketball pump down and back away slowly! 

Whenever I'm confronted with a seemingly insurmountable problem, people always scoff at my indecision saying that the answers are so simple and that it's all black and white. I wish! It isn't my fault that when I am forced to choose, I always see grey options  -it's how I was raised! My parents never allowed me to sway all the way to an extreme and instead I was strongly guided  to find a middle, blended ground (which included actually blending the ground in our backyard mostly because the manure and peat moss become better distributed that way for gardening - it just made so much sense). This had it's good points - instead of being forced to choose one of two flavours of ice cream, my father expertly mixed the two together on a marble slab that he designed himself while I stood by bawling (I really didn't want my vanilla and his unsweetened, black licorice root together)  and when I couldn't decide which shirt to wear, my mother would drop everything and cut both in half and restitch them together creating some completely bizarre patterns and shirts (once I was trying to choose between a white, collared, button-down dress shirt and a tie-dyed tank top). It also had it's bad points as even when a situation arose when only a black or white, yes or no type answer worked, I still wasn't allowed to choose one which created much controversy and unwanted negative attention for me growing up. Like the time in the lunch line up when I was asked if I wanted white or whole wheat toast and me being perfectly conditioned, answered "maybe" which led to a stall that resulted in no one getting their lunch before the bell. Or the time at the doctor's office when I needed to have one vaccine and I couldn't select which arm to have the needle inserted in, which led to me receiving countless shots in countless spots on the body from the frustrated and out-of-her-wits doctor (who coincidentally was wearing a grey shirt that day). In times of disarray I often close my eyes and visit a fantasy dream-like world that I imagine is all in black and white. It is so much simpler there compared to their grey upon grey world in which I live. In this imaginary world, all decisions are really really easy as they are actually black or white. Like do you want another piece of white cake? Is that shirt black? Do you like my new white sock? And, when I wrapped this sheet around your face repeatedly did you only see black before you passed out and I put your body in the trunk of the car? (I didn't say this fantasy land was safe, just that the questions were easy to answer without much hesitation.)

I have often been compared to a ticking time bomb as a result of all of the plastic surgery I have had which gives me a very flat and metallic look which is actually, if you were wondering, a result of hours and hours in the gym (and evidence that I am not completely sure how to use the equipment properly). I also have a bad habit of absent-mindedly making ticking sounds as I creep around and calling out "IS THAT A BOMB!" before running away giggling. Plus the fact that I am always one perceived slight or one extremely irrational response away from exploding. 

Just like everyone else, I like to look my best and I don't care if it takes creams and exfoliators and combs (that's right not just one comb, I am willing to use two), I am fully prepared to put in the effort. My goal is to be so good looking that I am just about drop dead gorgeous but not quite. I'd rather live and be slightly ugly.

I spend so much of my time staring at that idiot box and I should cut back so that I can watch some more high quality programming on the TV, but I just can't take myself away from watching those idiots! They are just so endearingly stupid and constantly on the verge of doing something profoundly dumb! I also find that after hours of observing these idiots constantly outdoing themselves finding yet another depth to mentally sink to, I feel a whole lot smarter myself. Thank you, idiot box, for accomplishing a task that 12 years of school could not. I have wondered how they got the idiots into the box in the first place, and why they don't just open it and leave - I mean there is a wide, gaping hole in the front.

I am a third wheel. At home, at the restaurants, on quiet walks under the moonlight, I am always the third wheel. I happen to think I am quite good at it and maybe, I'm just saying, I may be so good at it that after a bit more studying and a little fine-tuning with a renewed focus, I believe that one day I can move up to become the second wheel, or at least explore the options for settings where only two wheels are permitted.

I'm not sure why it is so hard to have your cake and eat it too. I mean, if it is a good cake I totally get that others would want some too and if your friends are anything like mine, they are like vultures around cake and it is just not humanly possible to fend off multiple attackers from different angles all at the same time and not drop the cake. I would guess that you should buy your cake and then cover it in a cloak or something and then rush home. A simple white cake box will not be sufficient - those that want to steal your cake will see through that  (the clear plastic top makes that all too easy). Even with a cloak, I wouldn't rush too fast - it will draw unnecessary attention to you. Your friends and other passersby will wonder aloud "Why is he rushing so fast on a pretty regular looking day  - pretty suspicious, if I don't say? Probably is concealing a cake." So, walk slowly but meaningfully, both avoid eye contact so as not to draw any unnecessary attention and also make eye contact so it doesn't appear that you are going out of your way to avoid eye contact as only a cake-horder does that in this day and age and then as soon as you are home and the door is closed and locked, you may resume stuffing your face with cake. Maybe sharing isn't such a bad idea afterall?

Some time in my busy schedule of performing open heart surgeries, eating blood sausages and taking classes at the local community college in blood splatter analysis has finally opened up and I plan to paint the town red. 

I was recently told that I was as heavy as a sack of potatoes. Initially, I was quite offended as I was imagining this massive sack overflowing with enough gargantuan potatoes to barely satisfy a humongous, potato-loving family or group of citizens or just one maniacal loaner who just loves peeling them while laughing at imaginary not-so-funny monologues. After some time, I decided to venture out and explore the world of sacks of potatoes and after months of extensive research and both observing and purchasing for the sake of carrying, many sacks of a variety of sizes and weights, my conclusion was that it is still an insult of the high degree and I will exact my revenge. Looking forward to consuming less starch too as I have either developed a rare skin ailment from consuming excessive starch or I am just caked with discarded potato skins. On the upside, I now have quite the sack collection. My grandfather would be proud (but then again he was quite odd and almost anything I did made him proud).

Last week I was at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant and asked if I could have one of everything. I was told by the waitress to "eat my heart out" with, in my opinion, way too much pleasure especially considering the time of day. It also seemed to be a totally strange suggestion considering I had already ordered a ton of sushi and neither I nor her nor my eating companion seemed to be a surgeon capable of performing heart removals with a live patient. And could I even eat my heart once removed? Would I live long enough? What accompanying sauce would best enhance a lightly-sautéed heart? As I thought and thought and thought, I decided that either my waitress had all of these answers or...I looked around and not only had she checked out and gone home, but the restaurant lights were dimmed, the place cleaned and only a man dressed in a surgeon outfit with a gleaming smile and an equal gleaming scalpel sat across from me (his shoes were also shiny but that is neither here nor there). This is why I usually order in and am trying to cut back on expired dairy products.

I am often a bit hot under the collar, which I initially attributed to wearing collars on my shirts. I thought -Hey! If I just stop wearing collars, I will feel a whole lot cooler, and the only downside is having to shop for a lot of new shirts. However, when I switched over to non-collared shirts and turtlenecks, the heat remained. I was tempted to give up, but I have done a lot of that recently, and I was trying to not give in to that particular temptation. My new goal was to be as cool as a cucumber. Step 1: refrain from eating and/or using cucumbers as microphones in front of the bathroom mirror and/or fondling (unless that particular cucumber seems to enjoy it) and/or practicing speeches in front of all cucumbers while studying them. Step 2: spend all of my free time observing the cucumbers both in their natural habitat and in my refrigerator to see what makes them tick and be so cool (note: could probably skip the "ticking" part if pressed for time). Step 3: after completing 500 hours of observations (the minimum time required by my wife, who is trying to catch up on her PVRed TV shows, and for some reason was put in charge of making the rules), go to the library and research "the musical story of cucumbers and how they are far superior to zucchinis (a fact they are well aware of)", "all about our friend, the refrigerator, and why calling her 'fridge' is bordering on sacrilegious", "what storing cucumbers in refrigerators actually accomplishes (you would be surprised)" and "the history of humans and refrigerators seen through the eyes of a cucumber". Step 4: go play some tennis -nothing to do with the project, I just needed a break as I was starting to see cucumbers wherever I turned and they were starting to talk to me, which I quite enjoyed, until they started to encourage me, gently at first, to do some very bad things. Step 5: after completing 500 hours of library research (again the minimum time required by my wife, she stated with what can only be described as glee or possibly greed), start living the part and become as cucumber-like as possible - dress like one (vests, vests and more vests), talk like one (they often have a slight Welsh accent), behave like one (friendly, but not too friendly; smart, but not too smart; and exactingly punctual, totally and completely, smugly punctual all the time almost like it makes you so much better than everyone else) and then see if the result is "coolness". If it is, I will celebrate my new found state of being cool with a refreshing cucumber and yogurt salad and a spanking, fresh hair cut that will be the talk of the town or just make me hear more voices, which will have the same end result. If it isn't and I am still too hot, then I will still eat the refreshing salad but with a fair amount of spite and vitriol and while I will outwardly state to all present, how much I enjoy said salad, honestly, I will be overstating the fact as the salad will be quite bland and so 80s.

I used to walk around the house with a carefree bounce in my step almost as if to say "I don't care where my foot lands, it's all good".  Now? I am always walking on eggshells due to your haphazard way of discarding all of the shells. I miss those carefree days in a way that only a perfectly poached egg can come close to satisfying. Keep those eggs coming, but could you please use the compost!

Many people have told me that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Man, do I only wish it was so easy. I'm writing this now holed up in my attic awaiting the next wave of certifiably-crazy, body-probing, needle-wielding doctors who are practically frothing at the mouth waiting to inflict pain upon me (or just reminding me in person about my next appointment, and if so, what's with the froth?). Sure you call it a regular check-up, but I can see right through that, you fiends - you just want to extract my kidney, hack at my knee and shine bright lights into my eyes and ears and other places too if it tickles your fancy. I hide in my attic, hurling apples, tower-defense style, trying to keep those doctors with their perfect degrees and slightly less perfect hair pieces out of my house.

I have no idea what like a pie in the sky is supposed to mean and it just makes me so angry! What?!?!?! Like something is suppose to be like a pie floating or flying in the sky?!?! Really!?! Have you ever encountered anything like that?!?!? That's what I thought! What is even like a pie in the first place? A tart, you say? Okay...you have a point - tarts are quite similar to pies. A quiche? Again, good point, quiches are quite similar to pies as well. Flan? Cobbler?...Alright, so there are actually a fair number of other baked goods reminiscent of pies, I stand corrected. But, that is not my point at all, my point was...ahh screw it, anyone else in the mood for pie right now?

Have you met that guy downtown who is razor sharp? Super-smart and a compelling conversationalist, and I always leave our meetings with much knowledge gained and tons of cuts all about my arms and legs. I can't decide if having my mind blown wide open and filled with brilliant idea after brilliant idea makes worthwhile all of the pain, blood and scars from the countless razors that he insists on not just keeping on his body but waving around as he pontificates.

Just yesterday, my buddy thrust a magazine article in my face and demanded that I read it and weep, which I did. As I've always said, is there any other way to enjoy a well-researched, properly-punctuated magazine article with impeccable grammar then with a good cry?

Just for once, I want to be on top of the world so others will look up at me or should I say up in my general direction as I'm assuming that if I am literally on top of the world then I'll be fairly far away from everyone else and that they will have to squint, or use a telescope or just take for granted that I am actually there and just go on with their regular lives. I'm sure that at first it will be a novelty and other's will take time to notice or talk about it, and then everyone will just forget about it and resume having fun and I'll be stuck up there on top of the world with no way to get down (they didn't mention that in the brochure) and also, I have a debilitating fear of heights and even if they provide a ladder or a hang glider or something, I am screwed. And I'll have no one to talk to and I'll be forced to create a whole cast of characters to interact with just to fight off the inevitable fall into insanity although inventing, writing detailed character studies and interacting with imaginary characters will lead instead to a gentle walk towards insanity. Also, that pretty girl I used to like to look at through my binoculars from my window, will now just look like a dot from up here, albeit a pretty dot - oh who am I kidding - all the dots will look the same up here and when I think I am looking at her I could just be ogling a dog or a mailbox or that life-sized picture of myself I painted on my roof. She won't even know I exist, which may be step up from the current state, where she knows and only tolerates me because she promised her ailing father not to abhor anyone as it added to her stress. Why did I want this privilege of being on top of the world again? So others would be forced to take a break from looking down at me and have to look up? I take it all back - keep looking down! Resume our regularly scheduled, well-rehearsed relationship where you are up here and I am down there. I don't love it, but at least I can't fall.

I really want to pay lip service! Where do I sign up?