It's easy to miss that everyone has their own story. The most boring, most banal people in our lives and the lives of our friends and families have their own path that led them directly to where they are right now. A person you see in a mall or on the sidewalk or in a restaurant, even though they might fit a discernable pattern or stereotype, have their own histories.
When we were down in Mexico, Cousin Mike invented someone: the disgruntled husband. A personification of the trodden-down husband; a man who thinks marriage is a life wasted; who rocked out in his youth, married his high-school sweetheart, and has been regretting everything that came after. A disgruntled soul who spends his time warning young men, young men in whom he sees himself, that "whatever you do, don't get hitched. Ol' ball and chain is right. I've been tied down for almost 30 years. What I wouldn't give to be your age again."
Briefly, as I was in a moving vehicle cruising through a neighbourhood of small houses with small yards, I saw that man. All I caught was a snapshot, but it was enough for me to realise who it was I was looking at.
What I saw was a white, late 40's man in a faded muscle shirt and sweatpants, working on his car. On the surface, not really much to remark upon. What struck me was the state of the car. Not the family car, but one he had bought 20 years ago, just for himself, maybe in an attempt to hold on to his youth. Up on blocks, not because it was an old, abandoned beater, but because he was rotating the tires. Hood up, not because something had gone wrong, but to make sure nothing would go wrong. Tools scattered about, not disorganised, but close to hand. Man, car, and driveway were all dirty. Not the dirt of laziness or of being slovenly, but of hard work and elbow grease.
I had the feeling that, despite occasional frustrations, a couple bloodied knuckles and aching muscles, this guy would sleep the sleep of a man who spent the day working hard at something with which he was completely at peace.
Maybe his wife doesn't make his eyes pop like she did when they were 18. Maybe he doesn't like his job or his kids, or his best friend is his dog. But that doesn't mean he couldn't still set aside a day to do something he loved, something that reminded him of his youth.
And maybe, hopefully, this guy walked into work on Monday morning, and once he got past his buds bullshitting about how lousy it was to be back at work on Monday morning, he got to see the look of envy and respect on their faces when they asked him, "So, what did you get up to this weekend?" and he said nonchalantly, "Not a lot..."
"Worked on the Car."
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Sunday, 20 May 2012
The Summer Of Staying Young
God am I sore.
Earlier this week I vowed that by the end of the week, I would own a longboard. Monday was a bust. Struck out on Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday were over before I knew it, and Friday I threw out my back, so longboarding was pushed back in my mind. But I had made a promise to myself, so on Saturday morning, I met up with Mike and he helped me pick out a beautiful board. Big, fat, wide wheels. Not as long as others, but stout. Obviously my board.
Today was the first time taking it out. Met with Mike and Mikey at Assinaboine Park and tried to learn how to skate. And I'll be damned if I wasn't getting the hang of it pretty soon. Of course, there were the obligatory bails; I fell directly backwards, feet up in the air above my head, and landed hard on my ass and the heels of my hands. Jarred myself pretty hard. Pieces of asphalt embedded into my palms. And one fall where I managed to slam down on my already bruised heel.
And you know what I say? So what. Who cares? Bring on the pavement. Last summer was a complete wash. I didn't bike enough, camp enough, buy enough, hang out with friends enough. I was broke and felt useless just about all the time.
No more. I've decided, with some very encouraging and motivating words, particularly from Cousin Mike himself, that it's time I get off my fat, lazy ass and put some miles behind me. This is the Summer Of Staying Young, and I fully intend to take advantage. I've got a bit of cash in my pocket, and I think if I play it right, I will be able to afford to have a fuck of a lot of fun this summer.
I have a lot of practice on my longboard to do before I'll be able to hit the road and not constantly be worried about how to fall. I'm thinking about a new bicycle. Hell, I'll even look into how much it is to go skydiving. Not because I'm afraid of feeling old. Because I don't want to stop feeling young.
Because I know I can longboard, and it's been a long time since I've learned to do anything like this from scratch.
And because I want to go out and own this summer.
Earlier this week I vowed that by the end of the week, I would own a longboard. Monday was a bust. Struck out on Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday were over before I knew it, and Friday I threw out my back, so longboarding was pushed back in my mind. But I had made a promise to myself, so on Saturday morning, I met up with Mike and he helped me pick out a beautiful board. Big, fat, wide wheels. Not as long as others, but stout. Obviously my board.
Today was the first time taking it out. Met with Mike and Mikey at Assinaboine Park and tried to learn how to skate. And I'll be damned if I wasn't getting the hang of it pretty soon. Of course, there were the obligatory bails; I fell directly backwards, feet up in the air above my head, and landed hard on my ass and the heels of my hands. Jarred myself pretty hard. Pieces of asphalt embedded into my palms. And one fall where I managed to slam down on my already bruised heel.
And you know what I say? So what. Who cares? Bring on the pavement. Last summer was a complete wash. I didn't bike enough, camp enough, buy enough, hang out with friends enough. I was broke and felt useless just about all the time.
No more. I've decided, with some very encouraging and motivating words, particularly from Cousin Mike himself, that it's time I get off my fat, lazy ass and put some miles behind me. This is the Summer Of Staying Young, and I fully intend to take advantage. I've got a bit of cash in my pocket, and I think if I play it right, I will be able to afford to have a fuck of a lot of fun this summer.
I have a lot of practice on my longboard to do before I'll be able to hit the road and not constantly be worried about how to fall. I'm thinking about a new bicycle. Hell, I'll even look into how much it is to go skydiving. Not because I'm afraid of feeling old. Because I don't want to stop feeling young.
Because I know I can longboard, and it's been a long time since I've learned to do anything like this from scratch.
And because I want to go out and own this summer.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Not Even A Blip
Tonight I realised a succinct way of putting into words how I feel towards many people I've dealt with in my life.
I'm not on your radar.
I guess it kind of goes hand in hand with my acceptance of my ugliness. It's not that I think I'm horrible looking. I'm not. But I know where I am on the 1-10 scale. And when I meet up with a person that, for a long time, I used to try to impress and to whom I would attempt to appear attractive (sexually or otherwise), I no longer care.
Does that make me a hipster, but in a pure sense of the word? So be it. I'm over you. And thank God, too, because who in their right mind wants to live their life by someone else's standards? I don't need to follow someone when they get up and leave the room, in the hopes that they want to talk. I don't need to act, dress, or behave in a certain way because it will make me cool in someone's eyes, and particularly when I see these people so infrequently.
It's less of a "Fuck you, because you hurt my feelings/(so-called) masculinity/ego" than a "Fuck you, I don't have to play by your rules."
God, it's freeing, knowing that someone you used to go out of your way to see is beyond you. It's freeing seeing someone and realising that you no longer care whether that person thinks you're cool or if they even think about you at all. It's freeing knowing that I have people in my life that, despite my many flaws, care for me and think I'm worth hanging out with; that when they try to get me to do something differently, they're not doing it to stroke their ego ("Let's see what I can get Creaky to do for me this time,") but to make me a better person.
And it's freeing knowing that those people I used to try to impress are exactly the same people they've been for years, and that I have no desire to be on their radar any longer.
I'm not on your radar.
I guess it kind of goes hand in hand with my acceptance of my ugliness. It's not that I think I'm horrible looking. I'm not. But I know where I am on the 1-10 scale. And when I meet up with a person that, for a long time, I used to try to impress and to whom I would attempt to appear attractive (sexually or otherwise), I no longer care.
Does that make me a hipster, but in a pure sense of the word? So be it. I'm over you. And thank God, too, because who in their right mind wants to live their life by someone else's standards? I don't need to follow someone when they get up and leave the room, in the hopes that they want to talk. I don't need to act, dress, or behave in a certain way because it will make me cool in someone's eyes, and particularly when I see these people so infrequently.
It's less of a "Fuck you, because you hurt my feelings/(so-called) masculinity/ego" than a "Fuck you, I don't have to play by your rules."
God, it's freeing, knowing that someone you used to go out of your way to see is beyond you. It's freeing seeing someone and realising that you no longer care whether that person thinks you're cool or if they even think about you at all. It's freeing knowing that I have people in my life that, despite my many flaws, care for me and think I'm worth hanging out with; that when they try to get me to do something differently, they're not doing it to stroke their ego ("Let's see what I can get Creaky to do for me this time,") but to make me a better person.
And it's freeing knowing that those people I used to try to impress are exactly the same people they've been for years, and that I have no desire to be on their radar any longer.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
I Learned A Word
Anybody remember the specific moment when you learned a new word? Not as in new to the English language, like so much computer jargon; a word that has been around forever, like 'joule', or 'fig', or 'posthumously'. Or, in my case, "Nee."
I even remember where I was when I learned this word. Just coming down off the overpass on Lagimodiere Blvd., heading north right before you hit Regent. I was young. (I remember the moment, but not how old I was.) It was dusk. We were heading home and my mom and I were playing the license plate game. You see the letters on someone's plates, you have to make a word using those three letters, in the order in which they appear. They don't have occur all together, but they do have to remain in order. For example, a plate with EDL would mean EDUCATIONAL was allowed, but not ELUCIDATE.
The car we saw had NEE. Easy. I said "Knee!". My mom said, "Or, nee." And she explained that when a woman is married and changed her name, she would be said to be First Name Married Name, NEE Maiden Name. As if a word for that actually exists.
I even remember where I was when I learned this word. Just coming down off the overpass on Lagimodiere Blvd., heading north right before you hit Regent. I was young. (I remember the moment, but not how old I was.) It was dusk. We were heading home and my mom and I were playing the license plate game. You see the letters on someone's plates, you have to make a word using those three letters, in the order in which they appear. They don't have occur all together, but they do have to remain in order. For example, a plate with EDL would mean EDUCATIONAL was allowed, but not ELUCIDATE.
The car we saw had NEE. Easy. I said "Knee!". My mom said, "Or, nee." And she explained that when a woman is married and changed her name, she would be said to be First Name Married Name, NEE Maiden Name. As if a word for that actually exists.
- introducing the maiden name of a married woman, 1758, from Fr. née, fem. pp. of naître "born," from L. natus, pp. of nasci "to be born" (Old L. gnasci; see genus).
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
The Future
I work at a public place. I have a job description, but even on the busiest of days, I spend the majority of my time people-watching. Because my work place is a cultural hub, and because it's downtown, I see Winnipeg's entire gamut of social class. And when I look at both the wealthiest and the most destitute of families, I see something in common: lousy kids.
I can't count the number of times in a day where I have to hear some parent yell at their kid, "Conner! Maximillian! This way! Over here! Keyla, don't touch that! Over here! Come this way! No! No, you can't! Come here, Sheena! Come here, Braydon!, Come here!"
I look at the kids running around and I don't see doctors and engineers and teachers and paramedics. Most of the time I see young adults run ragged chasing after some snot-nosed rugrat. Like they thought it would be a good idea to pop out a couple mouths to feed. I get that the desire to have kids is very strong in a great many people, but seeing it day in, day out has made me realise that the large majority of parents look fucking miserable having to take care of their kids.
But that's just most, not all of, the time. There's a young couple that regularly comes by with their couple, few kids, and they've got their shit together. Hep folks, well-behaved kids, dance lessons, eating with cutlery, the whole nine. Good. More power to them.
I also see the other side. People that have kids for the welfare cheque. 4-,5-,6-,7-year-olds in strollers because they're too fat to walk, mouths red from the syrup they're sucking back. Unhappy, crying brats that look to my eyes like they're just waiting to grow up so they can become junkies. And everywhere, too many kids!
I know that seeing kids as drug users-/hookers-/bullies-in-waiting is a terrible, cynical way to think. And I acknowledge that about half of that opinion comes from me being exposed to it all the time, and that when this job is long behind me, I'll think differently. But the proliferation of kids is not an opinion where one can just argue their case. There are too many damn kids. Fact.
No one in their right mind can tell me that having 6+ kids is a responsible thing to do. Unless you were born on a farm and your parents had a dozen kids because they needed help milking the cows and harvesting, you don't have an excuse. Octomom? Appalling publicity stunt. John and Kate? 5 too many. The Duggars? A shameful and embarrassing example of using Christianity to eschew birth control. (Catholic Church, I'm looking at you.)
It's not like I believe in over-population. I've heard, and believe, that by most scientific estimates, the world's population will level off at about 10 billion. But it's the old argument: "Oh, what difference can I make? I'm just one person." Well, if a million single people did one small thing, it adds up. No, you having one or two more kids isn't going to make a huge difference. But look at it a couple of ways. 1. Large scale: if a million couples decided to have one or two more kids, that's pretty significant; and 2. Small scale: if you're a couple, two more kids will increase your family size 100%.
I'm winding down, because I know I'm not making any sense. I just think that there should be more and better access to contraceptives, more education, more responsibility, fewer kids. Not that the world can't handle them; it can. But because I fear that their parents cannot.
I can't count the number of times in a day where I have to hear some parent yell at their kid, "Conner! Maximillian! This way! Over here! Keyla, don't touch that! Over here! Come this way! No! No, you can't! Come here, Sheena! Come here, Braydon!, Come here!"
I look at the kids running around and I don't see doctors and engineers and teachers and paramedics. Most of the time I see young adults run ragged chasing after some snot-nosed rugrat. Like they thought it would be a good idea to pop out a couple mouths to feed. I get that the desire to have kids is very strong in a great many people, but seeing it day in, day out has made me realise that the large majority of parents look fucking miserable having to take care of their kids.
But that's just most, not all of, the time. There's a young couple that regularly comes by with their couple, few kids, and they've got their shit together. Hep folks, well-behaved kids, dance lessons, eating with cutlery, the whole nine. Good. More power to them.
I also see the other side. People that have kids for the welfare cheque. 4-,5-,6-,7-year-olds in strollers because they're too fat to walk, mouths red from the syrup they're sucking back. Unhappy, crying brats that look to my eyes like they're just waiting to grow up so they can become junkies. And everywhere, too many kids!
I know that seeing kids as drug users-/hookers-/bullies-in-waiting is a terrible, cynical way to think. And I acknowledge that about half of that opinion comes from me being exposed to it all the time, and that when this job is long behind me, I'll think differently. But the proliferation of kids is not an opinion where one can just argue their case. There are too many damn kids. Fact.
No one in their right mind can tell me that having 6+ kids is a responsible thing to do. Unless you were born on a farm and your parents had a dozen kids because they needed help milking the cows and harvesting, you don't have an excuse. Octomom? Appalling publicity stunt. John and Kate? 5 too many. The Duggars? A shameful and embarrassing example of using Christianity to eschew birth control. (Catholic Church, I'm looking at you.)
It's not like I believe in over-population. I've heard, and believe, that by most scientific estimates, the world's population will level off at about 10 billion. But it's the old argument: "Oh, what difference can I make? I'm just one person." Well, if a million single people did one small thing, it adds up. No, you having one or two more kids isn't going to make a huge difference. But look at it a couple of ways. 1. Large scale: if a million couples decided to have one or two more kids, that's pretty significant; and 2. Small scale: if you're a couple, two more kids will increase your family size 100%.
I'm winding down, because I know I'm not making any sense. I just think that there should be more and better access to contraceptives, more education, more responsibility, fewer kids. Not that the world can't handle them; it can. But because I fear that their parents cannot.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Thanks, Mike
Everybody know the feeling of wanting to express in words something that they feel, something that they know, but at the same time, no matter how hard they try, the proper language escapes them.
I can't properly express how it felt to put my hands into the Atlantic Ocean. That moment changed my life. Or looking down on Ottawa from the peak of the Peace Tower. I can tell you it was impressive, that emotions welled up in me, that I felt so blessed just to be there! that I nearly wept, but the old saying holds true: words escape me.
But every once in a while, you manage to hit the nail on the head. Well, I put my finger on it today. It's not a major, cataclysmic life-changer like traveling to another part of the country or sharing a once-in-a-lifetime conversation with a stranger on a completely different walk of life than you. It's more of a river eroding a rock type of change. Slow. Intentional without being aware.
I know why I like listening to podcasts. Some reading this will be disappointed that that's all I've got, that's my whole revelation. A long life of being a disappointment has prepared me to not care.
I was simply sitting in a food court, listening to an awful show, and I realised why it was that I was such a fan, even of the bad stuff: because it's new. And on the back of that happy discovery came a dawning realisation, one much grimmer. Sometimes, alas!, music can stagnate.
How many bands do I like? A fair number. But I want more. I want to be touched by more bands, I want to discover new music, I want to find another band that speaks to me the way Coheed does, or The Mars Volta, or mewithoutYou. I know it's out there, that music. The sheer law of averages commands it. So while I wait for that music to come my way, and believe me, I want to start making advances into more and new music, podcasts afford me the ability to listen to something that I haven't heard before. I get to know the people sitting on the other end of the process, and I've been lucky enough to even participate a couple of times in the creation of said.
It feels like, and is, a case of me knowing so much about the person on the podcast and them not knowing a thing about me, much the same as a fan of a band can tell you the lead singer's first high school band and what their EP was called. How well do I know Sanchez? Pretty well, I would say. Of course there are blank spots, but look at it relatively. How well does she know me?
Podcasts offer me a look into someone's life, I hear stories about how they were raised, and by whom, and trouble they got into, or didn't get into when they ought to have, or the music they like (which is great) or the sex they've had, the places they've camped, the cars they've driven, the conversations they've had. I hear highs and lows. And I know that as much as I am One Among The Fence, being part of a band's fanbase is nothing compared to being part of the Whorde.
I don't want to belittle music. Music is one of the most important things to me in my entire life, and I would hate for that to change. Even writing this, I can recall seeing bands live, sweating in a pit, screaming at the top of my lungs for hours on end, and let me tell you, God, there is nothing, NOTHING like that. But when you're stuck in a bit of a rut, new music-wise, as I seem to be, you strive for something new.
I want new music. I love the feeling of getting absolutely lost in 'Day Of The Baphomets' or 'Cassandra Gemenni' or 'The Willing Well' or 'The End Complete' or 'King Beetle On A Coconut Estate'. But it doesn't happen everyday.
Now, listening to a story teller stringing one hell of a yarn? Yeah, I can do that every day.
I can't properly express how it felt to put my hands into the Atlantic Ocean. That moment changed my life. Or looking down on Ottawa from the peak of the Peace Tower. I can tell you it was impressive, that emotions welled up in me, that I felt so blessed just to be there! that I nearly wept, but the old saying holds true: words escape me.
But every once in a while, you manage to hit the nail on the head. Well, I put my finger on it today. It's not a major, cataclysmic life-changer like traveling to another part of the country or sharing a once-in-a-lifetime conversation with a stranger on a completely different walk of life than you. It's more of a river eroding a rock type of change. Slow. Intentional without being aware.
I know why I like listening to podcasts. Some reading this will be disappointed that that's all I've got, that's my whole revelation. A long life of being a disappointment has prepared me to not care.
I was simply sitting in a food court, listening to an awful show, and I realised why it was that I was such a fan, even of the bad stuff: because it's new. And on the back of that happy discovery came a dawning realisation, one much grimmer. Sometimes, alas!, music can stagnate.
How many bands do I like? A fair number. But I want more. I want to be touched by more bands, I want to discover new music, I want to find another band that speaks to me the way Coheed does, or The Mars Volta, or mewithoutYou. I know it's out there, that music. The sheer law of averages commands it. So while I wait for that music to come my way, and believe me, I want to start making advances into more and new music, podcasts afford me the ability to listen to something that I haven't heard before. I get to know the people sitting on the other end of the process, and I've been lucky enough to even participate a couple of times in the creation of said.
It feels like, and is, a case of me knowing so much about the person on the podcast and them not knowing a thing about me, much the same as a fan of a band can tell you the lead singer's first high school band and what their EP was called. How well do I know Sanchez? Pretty well, I would say. Of course there are blank spots, but look at it relatively. How well does she know me?
Podcasts offer me a look into someone's life, I hear stories about how they were raised, and by whom, and trouble they got into, or didn't get into when they ought to have, or the music they like (which is great) or the sex they've had, the places they've camped, the cars they've driven, the conversations they've had. I hear highs and lows. And I know that as much as I am One Among The Fence, being part of a band's fanbase is nothing compared to being part of the Whorde.
I don't want to belittle music. Music is one of the most important things to me in my entire life, and I would hate for that to change. Even writing this, I can recall seeing bands live, sweating in a pit, screaming at the top of my lungs for hours on end, and let me tell you, God, there is nothing, NOTHING like that. But when you're stuck in a bit of a rut, new music-wise, as I seem to be, you strive for something new.
I want new music. I love the feeling of getting absolutely lost in 'Day Of The Baphomets' or 'Cassandra Gemenni' or 'The Willing Well' or 'The End Complete' or 'King Beetle On A Coconut Estate'. But it doesn't happen everyday.
Now, listening to a story teller stringing one hell of a yarn? Yeah, I can do that every day.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Better People
I get that I come across wrong. I want to.
I don't want to be understood, anticipated, or expected. I don't want to be predictable.
I am easygoing. I see the big picture.
So when I give advice, it's know it's hard to not come across as condescending. Honestly, when I give advice, it's usually to condescend to someone.
Which leaves me in a difficult position. I want people to take what I say as the gospel truth. Fact is, I know better than you. However, I want people to be as easygoing as I am, to have the freedom to tell a person to fuck off.
I think the best case scenario for those situations is that a person will listen to what I have to say. I may be condescending, but I'm right.
Second best case scenario is that the person just laughs me off and says "Buh, whatever. Don't care." That way, even though you're not listening to me, you're seeing the big picture, which is that a person should live their life for themselves. That's not a selfish thing to do, not if you're me. Some people will associate a person living their life for themselves as being inconsiderate of others. Those people are shallow, misguided, and probably a little bit retarded. Have you ever given gifts to someone? Christmas time? Birthday? Just because? And doesn't that feel good? Don't you want to keep giving yourself the pleasure of pleasing other people?
I'm getting away from myself.
What I most certainly do not want a person to do is fly off the handle and get offended. Listen, if I didn't like you, I just wouldn't talk to you. So if I'm talking to you, we're friends. I want you to be better.
I will never stop correcting people when they say or spell something incorrectly. I know a couple of people, jacks of all trades, master of none. I'm a 6, 7 tops, at the best thing I know, which is language, so I am going to hold on to that with all my might. I realise I misspeak, I misspell, I use improper syntax. But when push comes to shove, and I'm sober, I can be one eloquent son of a bitch. I can write like a man possessed (when so possessed).
So get off your fucking high horse and either listen to me, because I have your best interests at heart, you ungrateful sniveling masses, or just laugh me off, tell me to fuck off, because what I'm saying is just going in one ear and out the other, water off a duck's back, and you're not going to change because you don't care to.
I don't want to be understood, anticipated, or expected. I don't want to be predictable.
I am easygoing. I see the big picture.
So when I give advice, it's know it's hard to not come across as condescending. Honestly, when I give advice, it's usually to condescend to someone.
Which leaves me in a difficult position. I want people to take what I say as the gospel truth. Fact is, I know better than you. However, I want people to be as easygoing as I am, to have the freedom to tell a person to fuck off.
I think the best case scenario for those situations is that a person will listen to what I have to say. I may be condescending, but I'm right.
Second best case scenario is that the person just laughs me off and says "Buh, whatever. Don't care." That way, even though you're not listening to me, you're seeing the big picture, which is that a person should live their life for themselves. That's not a selfish thing to do, not if you're me. Some people will associate a person living their life for themselves as being inconsiderate of others. Those people are shallow, misguided, and probably a little bit retarded. Have you ever given gifts to someone? Christmas time? Birthday? Just because? And doesn't that feel good? Don't you want to keep giving yourself the pleasure of pleasing other people?
I'm getting away from myself.
What I most certainly do not want a person to do is fly off the handle and get offended. Listen, if I didn't like you, I just wouldn't talk to you. So if I'm talking to you, we're friends. I want you to be better.
I will never stop correcting people when they say or spell something incorrectly. I know a couple of people, jacks of all trades, master of none. I'm a 6, 7 tops, at the best thing I know, which is language, so I am going to hold on to that with all my might. I realise I misspeak, I misspell, I use improper syntax. But when push comes to shove, and I'm sober, I can be one eloquent son of a bitch. I can write like a man possessed (when so possessed).
So get off your fucking high horse and either listen to me, because I have your best interests at heart, you ungrateful sniveling masses, or just laugh me off, tell me to fuck off, because what I'm saying is just going in one ear and out the other, water off a duck's back, and you're not going to change because you don't care to.
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