8-0: One man's electricity

Moderately intoxicated blogging alert. I took tonight as a cue to slip into the gin a little. And it took, I can tell, because that sentence originally read "slip into gin the..." which naturally makes no sense.

I love gin, I do. I find myself frequently having to defend that, but I honest and truly enjoy the buzz I get from it more than anything other than beer, which is a different matter altogether.

Of course, I didn't have to defend anything at all tonight. No, no. Tonight I hit the bottle after deciding I was left to my own devices, spurned by a universe full of fireworks and drunken revery. I wanted to get out but the hour rolled around when it's just not happening, and you know you're stuck in watching a rerun of SNL. It stems partially, though not for lack of trying, from the fact that I was given an unexpected visitor for the weekend...

This supposed long weekend (and when you're out of school and work, really, every weekend is a long weekend bleeding into the next,) mirrors the previous, Victoria Day, when Grandma dropped Xena in my lap. Meanwhile, Eric, then as now, has gone to the trailer and I'm stuck here, bored and exhausted... at wits end with this maladroit shih tzu.

So I had me a couple glasses of gin & 7up because we're out of tonic.

I hope readers of the blog are not bummed. Perhaps it's just my nature, like the Scorpion who stung the toad. That sentence made a lot more sense when I thought it up... nearly an hour ago when I was more inebriated.

I've fallen back into my summer tendancy to watch shitty movies on the Movie network. Today was Yours, Mine and Ours. There'll be a review on Interneta before too long, but it'll basically consist of the four words, "Man, that was shitty!"

I was having this dream last night where I was in a subway, going from car to car determined to get to the front the thwart the villain there. I didn't make it, I was awakened (by the delivery of the previously-mentioned shih-tzu,) but I felt very detemrined, despite the terror of moving subway cars and an inevitable villain eager to vaporize me. It was probably a metaphor for my own fearful detemrination to find a job. Or fuck, maybe it was just a quick dream about a subway. Who the hell knows.

Time is possibility, baby.

I've been writing, but that's nothing new. You can say a lot of things about me, and some of it would be true; but ever since grade 8 you can't say I haven't been writing. Always something on the go, something or other, and someday I'm sure you'll be reading some of it, somewhere, somehow. And some of it might even be good, but right now that's almost elementary because I'm still doing it.

But mayber my writing suffers because I'm not a melodramatic person. I have trouble wrenching down and seeing things in the extreme, and sometimes struggle to take it beyond my natural mental moderation. I'm planning a story right now (part of Collection of Curiosities) that would attempt to crack this nut wide open. No rationale, no moderation, just pure fury and emotion and stuff. But I'm young yet. There's time to learn the extremes.

It's harder to make comedy than tragedy. Because tragedy is easy; everyone gets killed in the end, or otherwise catharsis; according to the classical formular anyhow. And modern "drama" is far less nuanced, let me tell ya. But comedy is the trickiest of all, to appeal to humour and to execute it properly, my God... well, you've seen all the shitty sitcoms out there, you can tell, and yet few people say "that's a shitty drama." For God's sake, people love CSI. Compare Aaron Sorkin's success with the West Wing with his failures on Sports Night and Studio 60 (although to be fair, those were both good shows so I maybe shouldn't have invoked them at all.) And yet in order to do comedy... you just have to be natural at it. So for those who do comedy well, it's much easier. It's just not learned; it's bred. I like to consider the Sewerman comics as varying degrees but at least generally funny. And anytime Eric and I sit down to write one (as we have done so recently,) it just comes right out, in the best cases all in one night, whereas I might obsess over one story for weeks if I need a dramatic element. Life's funny like that sometimes.

But I still have faith, honey, that someday it will all fall into place.

As for Interneta, I have a whoopass-long article on tap for later this summer. It's been in my idea bank for months (and I've mentioned it once or twice in this very blog.)

So won't you please, just for me, keep on rockin'
Scott

7-3: You can't keep me in

There's a lot that I want to talk about, but probably won't be able to tonight. I want to be upbeat, I want to have a good time, because it's one of those rare times I feel capable of that, but sadly, my sense of righteous outrage will not abate. I tried it the other night and I got frustrated. Tonight I've got to release it or else explode.

Last night I was at Ferguson's for a barbecue. I didn't eat anything, that's my business, and anyone who knows me well enough understands. But I had a few drinks and hung out. As I arrived, I was virtually immediately pulled aside by Chrisbrown who asked what I thought of the Chris Benoit situation. I sighed.

Earlier that evening I had been in the car with my brother Eric, mom and Tim on the way to grocery shopping. Mom, or Tim, or somebody, mentioned what they'd heard in the news about Benoit, and after the conversation went on for a moment, I interjected, "I'd rather not talk about it." I'd sat by silently (by choice) as my dad and brothers talked at length about it Wednesday night before dinner. I had to think about it all evening on Monday (nearly in tears, mind you,) and all day tuesday. I had to go by newspaper boxes every day where the Sun has a graphic of Benoit above the masthead asking in bold letters "'ROID RAGE?" or proclaiming, "RING OF DEATH" or as in today's monstrously exploitative "JUICE FREAK." Oh, those fellas down at the Sun certainly don't let conscience or sensitivity get in the way of a boffo front page. Assholes.

So by Thursday night I was exhausted, but because CB is my friend and eager to discuss this intelligently, I was happy to indulge him in the conversation. I told him something that I had been saying privately to myself for days: that I felt somewhat betrayed, as I had counted Benoit as being among my wrestling heroes, and that he had tarnished that memory with millions of worldwide fans over the course of a weekend. And now the media has jumped on it like the ravenous barracudas they seem to pride themselves as being at this point of the decade. Miserable fuckers eager to turn a buck. Every month it's an Anna Nicole or a Paris Hilton or a Don Imus and now it's Chris Benoit. Evil steroid freak wrestler loses mind and kills family, self: open and shut in the court of public opinion. CB was very quick to point out that if you're alive, you're innocent until proven guilty. If you can't defend yourself, of course... not that I'm defending his actions, but here we have Phil Spector still in the "alleged" murderer category, but because Benoit is dead and gone, no need to look for suspects (and that is an actual quote, they made a point of saying they were not seeking other leads,) and it was steroids. That's the stupidest fucking thing.

It's easy to make this a buzzword. The Virginia Tech killer was a murderer because he played violent video games (even though according to his roommates, he actually did not,) and steroids make people kill their families and themselves, even though steroids are often legally prescribed to athletes to help them recover from injuries, particularly Chris Benoit's very serious spinal fusion surgery he underwent years ago. Or that he tested negative for steroids as recently as April and that since November 2005 the WWE has enforced a very serious and strict Wellness Policy banning anybody who shows up with so much as "elevated liver enzymes" from competing. But nobody knows or cares about that, do they? Because it's easy and fun to write about steroids. Once the media decides that's it, that's it.

Because a week ago, who was Chris Benoit? He was just some musclehead wrestler working for (the evil, worthless) WWE, which is filled with similar musclehead steroid-abusing wrestlers, as far as the world at large is concerned. And none of these reporters or TV anchor people knew or cared who he was, because what is wrestling? It's fake, right? Big musclefreaks slamming each other and pretending it hurts, smearing fake blood around and eventually pretending to lose. Except... the pain is acutally real, and so is the blood, and the wear and tear these wrestlers go through on their bodies is as real as it gets. They do not take time off to heal or get surgery for fake injuries. They, and Chris Benoit in particular, don't take very much time off at all. Despite what "the world at large" thinks of them, they work very hard to please the people who do accept them and what they do, and that hard work takes a serious toll. The pressure from their company and peers to remain in shape, through strenuous training or through physique-enhancing drugs is immense and your body cannot always cope, nor can your mind. And when you take a lump to the head -- and you can ask Bret Hart what a concussion can do to you, because a few years back his career-ending concussions led to a stroke -- and you have to keep working, because of that pressure, and ethic, it can break you. It can fucking break you. But no, no. Steroids did it.

Fuck the media. The real world is faker than pro wrestling.

It's been a very difficult time, you might understand, to be a fan of pro wrestling. With all this excessive coverage, I feel very exposed not only as someone who comments on the media (being somewhat versed in its ways after the past two years - if it bleeds, you know, it leads, especially on the Toronto Sun those assholes) and also as someone who was more well acquainted with Chris Benoit as a performer and wrestling as a lifestyle (since the death of Eddie Guerrero I've studied it very carefully) than any of those self-righteous judgmental pricks writing the news copy could possibly have been. But whatever. Steroids. That's the story.

I've tried to ignore it, but Eric is watching Nancy Grace (well, her underling) going on about it to no end, saying stupid things like "Obviously we can't comment on steroids until the toxicology reports come out, but that could take weeks, and all we can do is speculate, so let's speculate." The translation being, "We need a story and this is hot: discuss!" I've been saying since Monday that time will tell. I just want to wait and see how it turns out, especially since by then all the stupid reactionary outrage will have died down and everybody can go back to not caring about those stupid steroid-junkie wrestlers... who are still out there trying to doi their jobs like anyone else and live their lives (but people don't like to think about that, do they? It's too hard to be compassionate, and not very profitable.)

I think what Chris BEnoit did is horrible, as I've said, and it's hard enough for me as a fan to wrap my brain around it. But even worse is what it has wrought.

I won't even comment on some of the other smack people were talking at the BBQ. Suffice it to say that, despite CB's and my protests (although I indulged a small bit to show that I'm still me,) "Benoit" is now a fucking verb, a punchline. you can imagine. This is not how he should be remembered, but then again, he shouldn't have been remembered as a murderer at all, so let the dominoes fall.

Like I said, I'm going to work on some updates for the weekend. My rant here has left me tired and drained, physically and emotionally. I want to go back to my happy life of creating goofy comics and listening to rock and roll, and writing about both. 'Nuff said, true believer.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

ADDENDUM: If you want to learn more aobut this, read Tributes by Dave Meltzer, specifically the chapters on Brian Pillman, Louie Spicolli and to a lesser extent Art Barr. Knowledge is the first step to understanding.

7-2: Everybody's looking for somebody's arm to fall into

It isn't places we pine for, only memoires.

I've been occupying myself with a lot of writing... some articles, some cretive, et cetera et cetera. I remember back during NaNoWriMo when I was doing thousands or so words per night - in addition to MSN and other schoolwork. My arms felt like shite. I'm going to be doing quite a bit of stuff for Interneta in the next few days. By the weekend or so. Nothing too consequential, some reviews and rants, but it keeps me busy (nothing on that site is all that monumental anyway.)

The main impetus for this is that there's really nowhere to go. I can't get out of here, not physically, so I stay in and escape through the computer (not that that's unusual.) The weather was brutal-rapingly hot today as yesterday. I did go out for a BLT but when I brought it back home I dropped the top half of one half (so, quarter?) which is very sad; I always say it's a particularly unfortunate moment when an intended meal is ruined.

So I've been facing cabit fever but I think the heat's gonnabreak tomorrow. It was supposed to thunderstorm, but that passed by-- thus proving what a crock meteorology is anyhow.

I guess I ought to turn my eyes back to the horizon soon and get back on the trail of my future. I don't know. You know that feeling high school kids get on August 1st when they realized a whole month is gone and they only have half a summer left? Well I've got two months of that ahead. I'm trying not to focus on the pessmistic aspect of it though. After all, a lot can be done in two months. I recall I once made a movie in that length of time.

To move out or not to move out? A question indeed. We're weirdly insular at this house. My leaving will surely disrupt that, but that's not a bad thing. Every routine must end. Everyone must adapt sometime, even me. And I can face that because I'm trying to be at least a little conventional, a little normal. A while back my dad was lamenting that maybe his lack of presence somehow affected the way we came out. And maybe that's true - maybe we'd be a little more normal had he and mom never split up, but if we would, that's the consequence and he's just got to live with that. Lord knows I do. But I'm trying, and this university business is part of that; growing up, becoming a whole person, that deal.

It's not that I want to be mature and responsible; it's just that I want to see a new perspective, and it looks like I'm going for "the usual," which wuold be nice.

Tonight's entry was lengthier than I thought it might be. It wasn't all that down, either. It really wasn't much of anything, but it's something anyway.

All we've gotta do is find a place to fit in this puzzle of a world.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

7-1: Where we all live there ain't a soul around

It's been a triipy, humid, sweat-soaked day.

I won't be long on here, because there's not much to say. I did indeed sleep well last night although I'm less and less complacent and confident about my potential job-wrangling. I don't know, that's probably just a side order to my general entree of insecurity and unsureness. It's an accepted trait of mine that I basically just try to live with. Confident or no, I guess I'll just have to wait and see now.

Something's gotta give, I think, in this very unstable world of mine. I'm not looking for security so much as clarity and the ability to express myself (and at the moment, my ennui) and to prioritize. There's probably a ton of shite I either should be doing, or would rather be doing (rather, that is, than nothing.) And I can't bring myself to address it these days because I am sloth. Sloth personified, more or less. Rest assured, I am at least a very active, very well farm-tanned sloth, but a sloth nonetheless.

But the point is, I did nothing today, and for once, I liked it. I hope it ends soon, but I did like it.

(This isn't entirely true actually, I did finish off the next Redneck Comic, but that just happened in a trickle anyway.) I'd like to concentrate, at least for a while, on living my life somehow.

Like I said, not much tosay this evening. So I'll leave it off and go lie down or something. There is much to not do.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

6-3: Your uniforms don't fit we

It's been a weird day. Let me get my bearings...

She said "I know what it's like to be dead.
I know what it is to be sad"
And she's making me feel like I've never been born.

That was a John Lennon lyric, from "She Said She Said," a very peculiar song off Revolver with a very interesting story. You can easily look it up.

Today was such a weird fucking day. I woke up at 8, like I suggested I might. I ended up feeling very uncool because of that, so I doubt I'll be repeating the experiment. As a matter of fact I think I'll spend a lot of tomorrow sleeping as a way of making up for it. But I did manage to get properly down to brass tacks as a result.

I've been having difficulty in finding meaningless summer work. When I think I'm onto something, I prefer not to talk about it as a matter of not jinxing it. It worked at HMV so I'll keep similarly mum here, but I did something today that stands a great chance of working out well, once I get past my initial trepidation. It'll make a good story... no, that's a lie, but that's better than saying "it'll make a, y'know, average blog or so."

I petered around today, did a little work, and realized I was getting behind. It was stank hot outside so it was okay to hole up in the basement and take care of business. The day passed virtually without incident, the usual TV, the usual lunchfood, the usual quick pointless excursions. The whole damn routine right down to dinnertime. Then sometime after that, around 6:00, Brandon emerges from his room and tells me to check a website where I learn Chris Benoit has died.

I don't talk about pro wrestling much here; comics either for that matter, it's just not what people probably want to hear and I frankly don't get much pleasure talking about either with people not already obsessed. So the name Chris Benoit hasn't much come up over the blog, but the rundown is he was generally acknowledged as being the best wrestler, possibly of the past 20 years. And people can say, oh, wrestling's fake, they're all just juiced-up bad actors and bullshit like that. And I couldn't say anything to dissuade anyone of that pursuasion, but watching Benoit perform, demonstrate his ability and passion in the ring, gave me the last laugh on those people. His work allowed me to enjoy something that I was very often ashamed of for how outrageous it could otherwise be. And now, like his equally-talented friend Eddie Guerrero only 18 months ago, Chris Benoit is dead.

Many years ago, in grade school, I was having one of my usual sleepover-birthdays. I'm thinking Grade 5. Nick J. and I were talking about wrestling (it was very popular at the time) and I talked about how Bret Hart was probably the greatest Canadian wrestler, when he countered me and suggested "The Canadian Crippler" Chris Benoit probably was. At the time I didn't know him, because he worked for WCW at the time and I was a WWF faithful, but eventually, as most of the best ones do, he found himself in WWF where he quickly made his mark and became at home. I stopped watching for a few years in 2001, and around 2004 when I was ready to try it again, with a better idea of what I was looking at, Benoit was being portrayed as someone destined to win the World Title. A big deal. And ever since I've considered him among my favourites. He won the world title not long after I returned to watching, and defended against a young challenger named Randy Orton in Toronto in August 2004. He lost that match but it was so incredible for me to see it really left a mark. A month ago he returned to the Air Canada Center and seemed as big a deal as ever. The echos of that August night have quietly lingered.

The most disgusting part is the circumstances of his death. They are very controversial and, to me, recall the gruesome details of Phil Hartman's untimely death 8 years ago, only twistedly backwards. Because he died along with his wife Nancy and their son Daniel, they are investigating it as a double-murder/suicide, which seems unthinkable. I'm taking it with salt, knowing that investigations can develop and the the police have to err on the side of foul play. I certainly don't want to believe and will remain skeptical, but if it comes out that this man, whom I counted among my heroes, murdered his family, I will have to face that grim reality. My brother Brandon is obsessed with that possibility, and quite distraught. He doesn't live much outside of pro wrestling and hasn't handled it very well. He has the same stomach for the awful aspects of life that our mother does. Can't withstand it. Me, although I am very sad, am also reserved, at least until everything is known. Time will tell, and I only hope that all the man has been and done in the end is not undone by the manner in which it ended.

I've been thinking a lot about death recently. I'm thinking of stipulating in my will a playlist to be collected and played at my wake, to remember the good times. It would feature mainly poignant and evocative classic rock tunes. Appropriate to the somber mood, but reflective and reassuring. "Hey Jude." "Strawberry Fields Forever" (and perhaps "A Day in the Life,") "You Can't Always Get What You Want." "Freebird." "Baba O'Riley." "Wish You Were Here." Maybe for personal reasons, "No More No More" (as it was playing at the moment I learned my Great Grandma had died) but more likey, "What it Takes," a ballad they released on Pump... beautiful; will cause many healthy tears. And also "Tumbling Dice" because of how much I like that song. Those are just my first thoughts. I have a zenlike view of death (appropriate given my general Buddhist thing) and I only hope to live as well as I can, accomplish as much as I can and love as deeply as I can before I am gone. And also, you know, that it happens a really long time from now and isn't painful. Of course, I read that John Lennon interview published the month of his death, and a number of his remarks concerned the future and death and so forth, so I hope to avoid such ill portent.

Not going much further tonight. I'd rather that the is the last I speak about death for a while (but that probably can't be so.) Show your loved ones what you think.

I think I should do some writing soon and let something out. Probably won't go outside much tomorrow for fear of an exploding sun. And it's supposed to thunderstorm this week, so cabin fever here I come.

I said "Who put all those things in your head?
Things that make me feel that I'm mad
And you're making me feel like I've never been born."

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

6-2: I could have had a revolution

Not being down ain't no reason to be up.

Pensive tonight. Or maybe reflective. Hm, not having a great time with the lexicon this evening. At a weird place. I've made my faithful readers well enough aware of my problems, my anxiety about the future, my inability to secure gainful employment, etc, etc.

Time, as Steve Miller once aptly observed, keeps on slippin'; slippin', slippin' into the future.

I went back to M&M's meatshop today. A while back I mentioned I'd turned in a resume and that they wanted someone for fall. Today I dropped by and told them I'd be available in fall, at least on weekends and maybe after school. That's not untrue, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there. That increases my likelihood of getting that job, as I see it, from 2% to about 8%. I don't know, I can just tell when it's a no-go, but I guess you've got to push the issue sometimes. That's something I never did when dealing with women. And yeah, I look at applying for work as being like asking a girl out. I don't do either very often because after a certain point I get tired of rejection; no stomach for it.

I'm a wreck in that sense, because I'm used to things - immaterial shit, nothing of consequence - being easily obtained. I've gotten a weird treatment from the Man over the years because somewhere along the way someone decided I was full of potential. I guess because I'm skinny and white and male and wear glasses and am theoretically full of ideas and can turn a phrase every now and again. So for the early years it was, you know, pretty easy, and then right around the time that started mattering, it was gradually phased out. Luckily by that time I had developed an ability to charm people in the right occasions. This explains why I am not currently selling sunglasses, because my interview was with an automated recording, not a person I would leave any impression on. As I said, you can tell when it's a no-go. I should have applied to sort women's shoes. Then I could collect a paycheck and not have to think about it anymore, nor really fret that my life is escaping me, with unemployment stealing it away with every morning's cup of coffee. My time at Sheridan got me hooked, but my boredom and desire to get out in the morning and sort out a nice little routine left me on the line, addicted to the bean. Fucking coffee, man! This ain't exactly weather for coffee.

I'd get up earlier than 9 AM if it was worthwhile. As it is that's already a stretch. They don't really start playing music - not on Q107 anyway - until 9. I don't want to overuse my iPod's alarm capacity, but I might, just to give it a go and try to get a better foothold in life. Maybe then I could concentrate and get my affairs in order. I'll leave that sentence as I typed it, but I'll re-word it. Maybe then I will be able to concentrate and get my affairs in order.

This weekend was a washout. A 48-hour fuckup. Like much of June, it should be expunged from my life. This is not the finest moment of this blog, but then again, there are very few of those (yet I keep writing in hopes one will occasionally emerge, and it does.) Nearly 800 and precious little accomplished.

I watched a movie called El Topo today. I can't possibly recommend it to a general audience, but I by and large enjoyed it. A surreal experimental western with many disturbing images far beyond the reaches of the imagination yet very well deep seated in reality.

I'm not scared of the future, kind of the opposite. So my immediate future is grim; that will change, that will change. I see myself as floating on my back in a deep stream and though I may drown - we all float and we all may drown - it is only a matter of staying afloat and drifting along, flapping one's arms. And there are those content to float, and those who learn to swim.

Do you hear me? Naturally.

Just because you have no reason to be up, that's no reason to be down.

Keep on rockin'
De Scott

6-1: I wanna see what happens when I get to the end

They say that every sneeze is 1/8th of an orgasm. If that's the case, then something awful just went on in here. I got them dusty late night tired ole allergies mama.

Just a little inebriated as I begin this post, but less so as I type. Ran out of tonic water so I had a Gin & 7Up. Not bad. Sat out on the chilly ole porch with Eric and Brandon and ragged on people we don't like, issues in our family we're not fond of. Eric in particular seemed to have a chip on his shoulder and Brando seemed to go along with it. I'm not particularly fond of their drunk incarnations, which is why I don't often drink with them, even if it is just a lone drink.

I had somethingI wanted to talk about last night but forgot. And when I thought about it today, it seemed like I still could, and yet once again I have forgotten what it is. So could it really be all that important? What could it have been? Why am I doomed to let it fall into mental obscurity?

The alarm went out this morning, from a power-outage (mom, always misunderstanding the concept of electricity, is worried a fire might magically get started.) But it was 9:30 when I opened my eyes, which means I must've trained myself well to wake up "early."

This is, like, half and entry. Maybe tomorrow I can remember what I wanted to write about. This is hardly my best work. But at least tonight wasn't about my own little miseries. I just happen not to know where I'm supposed to go.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

5-3: No more than an impression of us here

If I can get my mind out of my nostrils tonight, I might be okay.

BAHAHA, bi-polar attack. I want desperately to give the impression that I am okay, or that I could be okay for a brief period whilst typing this. Because as far as I see it, I am the biggest fuck-up in the hemisphere, or I have got it fucking made (but may potentially be too proud to admit it.) so you can see my slight dichotomy. Do I suck or is life truly awesome? And if I am indeed as lyrical a scribe as I claim, could I not devise a better pair of adjectives than "suck and awesome?"

Answer: Of course not, because that's the vernacular with which my readership - and myself - is best familiar. As the Dude Lebowski might've said, it's "You know, like, the parliance of our times, man." Does it suck, or is it in fact awesome? How I Met Your Mother, perhaps the finest sitcom of its (timeslot) makes regular and intense usage of these words and it sounds fine or even great.

I woke up this morning to Hey Jude, -- well, not the proper song, but the extensive "Na, na-na, na-na-na-na" out-tro -- which marks the third time this week I have have been awakened -- awoken? -- by a Paul McCartney Beatles song. This isn't in and of itself strange. At 9:00, when I have my alarm set, Q107 plays the superset, devised by bored office-workers and anyone might typically favour a Beatles tune, given the choice. Between this and The Long and Winding Road a few days ago, as well as Penny Lane yesterday, you know, I think I'm onto something. People like to hear Paul McCartney in the morning. You know, tomorrow it'll be Yesterday or Eleanor Rigby. People aren't ready for The Ballad of John and Yoko or Strawberry Fields Forever, it's too heavy (as is I Want You [She's So Heavy,] naturally.) It's weird, too, because it's not like you don't hear AC/DC or anything on there, plenty of hard rock, but when people want the Beatles in the morning, they want the Paul songs. They don't want Revolution, they'd rather hear, I don't know, Blackbird. It's just to me. Last Friday I offered to teach Sonya (who knows about this place?/wtf?) about rock and roll. As you can tell, I have an awful lot to say on the subject.

I'm okay today. I had a Cheery/Vanilla Coke and an Abba Zaba today. The candy bar - white taffy wrapped around peanut butter - is mostly just available in California, so I ws struck when I saw it, and had to partake. It was all right, the peanut butter was a bit much but gotta love taffy.

I've been writing, not much lately. I went through a phase in May where I was writing lyrics like a madman (most of them suck) and right now I am mostly just writing titles. When I do attempt lyrics (my rare musical aspirations, given that I play no instrument and have debateable singing ability,) it does usually begin with a title, then figuring out what the song would be about (example, No Strings Attached,) or else the first line or so. I've got a bunch I'll get to later. I can read music but can't write it. It's the same case with French. I can also speak a little of that language but would need an interpreter if I were to meet the ambassador. I've also been working on some comics, getting some good honest work done and taken care of at long last. Who really has time to worry? (*The answer is, I probably do.)

So much commotion about the future, so much uncertainty. I can't ignore it, but like anyone else I'm just trying to find out who's pulling the strings.

And I want help, or I'd like it; certainly I'd be interested in a little help, but I don't need it, and these things have a way of working themselves out with time. Maybe I just put a little too much faith in the natural order of events I might expect to occur.

The fact that my entries keep going back and forth - tomorrow night I'll probably be insane with frustration and self-doubt again but no promises - is probably a testament to my ongoing mental erosion and general insanity.

Lord help the choir if I'm ever the one who's preachin'
Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

5-2: You left me standing here a long, long time ago

Another day with a deficit of accomplishment.

All I wanted was a simple little job I could do for two or three months to rack up a bit of cash. And I didn't want it to involve food. Well apparently that's just not in the cards. Maybe it's time to step it up. Maybe it's time to let it go. I don't want to let it go but after a certain point it becomes freaking embarrassing. I've spent all of May and now June simply not working, being idle, drinking coffee and making the most of the weather.

I hate this threshhold of maturity I've been on the edge of for the past few years. I'm not there yet man, I'm not equipped to deal with anything. A while back I was watching the news and I heard a story about a "20-year-old man" who was killed, and I thought, "Oh, shit, I'M a 20-year-old man." I've rarely heard the M-word seriously applied to me. But if I died in some horrible/outrageous way, on the news I'd be "20-year-old Oakville man."

All I've got is a mind, you know. I'm a capable person, observant and dependable, but I have very little in the way of concrete. I'm trying, but I don't seem to belong anywheres.

Oh Lordy Miss Moreno.

In today's Oakville Beacer, there was a very sad story about a man who was killed in a car accident. It's all mom's been able to talk about this evening, because she vaguely new the poor guy, and when someone who you somewhat knew dies, it becomes a bit of a fixation. When you are close to them, it becomes a very tragic moment, but from afar, it's an odd curiosity. Something at a distance.

I didn't know his kids personally... his son was a year older, his daughter a couple years younger, but I'm sure I at least met her, and it's very sad. I've taken a bit of a joking attitude toward death recently, acknowledging that it happens to us all, but when it comes in such a sudden way, it's tragic indeed.

I'm not in a good mood tonight, as you might imagine, and I feel bad for bringing it up. But I guess I had to get those vibes out there so they don't just feed back on themselves inside of me. I mean, I know I'm laying a trip out there, but I gotta get it outta my head and into the universe.

My universe is getting bigger every day. But I'm keeping it in my hands.

I think I'm okay for now.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

5-1: More than a cool summer breeze

Shalom this evening, readers. Tonight's title comes from something I said to Eric this afternoon.

There's something dark, I think, inside all of us. And until recently, that something was growing out of my right big toe. Today was fixing to be a pretty ordinary day. I woke up and satiated my now-prevalent addiction to coffee. I came back and jawed with Eric a bit about the weather. I got a little down, a little lonely, a little tired, a little rustrated with my future and present, and a little more lonely. I watched TV for a while, and then decided to figure out something to do. Ordinary stuff. Then Eric said he was going to go out and buy shorts, or I said I was going to HMV, or whatever, and it was decided we'd hit the mall together.

So after the lunchhour (during which I didn't eat anything,) we went ahead on our, but it started to drizzle a bit. So we turned back. We hung out for a while, I read some of On the Road (I've been tearing through it lately, as a result of a mostly-inexplicable 2-year delay on that.) Then we were on the porch and realized it was suddenly sunny again. "Fuck it," I figured, cramming the umbrella in my pocket, "Let's just go, I'm bored." So off we went in search of shorts and CD's. As we walked, we spoke (as we usually do) about various story ideas for comics or movies we may or may not work on, and he noted, "I like this weather, a cool summer breeze through the trees." Then he corrected himself and noted that it was not summer yet, and I said, "wby split hairs, it's two days."

He was looking around and I was idly browsing when I came across a pair of dark shorts. "Are these my size?" They looked small. I tried 'em on, and they fit so I bought them. It turned out to be a good idea, as I'll explain in a bit. After all, I only own two other pairs of shorts... I was wearing one and the other was in the wash, or at least waiting to be. So then we went over to HMV, and the thing I wanted was right at the front of the store, where I knew it would be given my general familiarity with the store layout (they've re-arranged a lot since January but the charts and new releases won't change. It's the store's scheme.)

Because I was intensely interested in hearing it without delay, and because it was at a good price, I bought the White Stripes' new album, Icky Thump. I don't believe I've ever bought an album immediately upon release before, or even been in a hurry to get it. The closest I've come was getting Aerosmith's Just Push Play a few months later on a lark. I bought White Blood Cells sometime after the band started making waves, Elephant seemingly long after it was relevant, and by the time I got Get Behind Me Satan, they had already recorded this one (to say nothing of the Raconteurs!)

Am I glad I bought the album? Yeah. It's quite different from the other three. Oh-so-much more rock. It's like, I don't know, Zeppelin or Steppenwolf or Sabbath or AC/DC at some places. But of course it's imminently recognizeable as being the same band who recorded The Denial Twist, I Want To Be The Boy To Warm Your Mother's Heart and Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground. I'll have to give it a few more listens to see which tracks stay with me, but at this point it looks like it's going to be You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What You're Told) at the top.

So after I make the chit-chat with the counter gang at HMV (some of whom remember me, some I suspect do not,) we headed back out, noticing through the skylight of Oakville Place that the sky has, apparently, turned black. Or at least an impenetrable grey. It's going to rain. And hard. A wind cut through us. "That's a little more than a cool summer breeze."

The clouds looked like massive grey-black bombursts. A deep barrier of accumulated vapor set to unleash a wrath upon us. For about half the walk we strolled against the breeze with a few droplets hitting us. I tucked my overshirt away in the bag with my shorts for preservation. About halfway up the hill at Kent, it began. Fwoosh.

Faaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwoooooossssshhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.

I had my umbrella and it helped some, but the shoes were hit bad in the bargain. Generally, the lower half of my body was soaked, the upper half was ok. So I had to go change into my new shorts and find new socks.

Several years ago... and I'd have to search the blog to find out when exactly it happened (my gut tells me April 2005,) my mom ran over my foot. At the time I thought it was no biggie, but sometime after, it began to consistently hurt. Uh oh, I thought. And sometime after that, I clipped the nail, and it just never grew back. Or so it seemed. I imagine it was, in fact, ingrown, but I'm no podiatrist so I'm not going to say that was definitely the case. I was very shy about appearing barefoot as a result. Something like a year ago, I noticed some growth, as well asa peculiar development... layers. The once-maybe-ingrown nail was now being forced out of my body attached to younger, healthy enamel. The consequence of this was that I now had a double-or-triple-thick toenaiul that could not be clipped by conventional means. It was very sensitive and anytime I stubbed it, oooh mama I was crippled. And over time, it became a long, jagged, unsightly physical manifestation of every sick twisted thing in the universe. Perhaps. Or just a gross nail.

As a result of having soaked my socks and shoes, I had to spend a certain amount of time barefoot, during which point I examined the nail. It looked like a formidable opponent, but I think it may have developed a weak spot, like the Death Star. I had to take the opportunity. Several rounds of clipping (and filing!) later, and here I am, with a nail that generally resembles normalcy.

So there you have that.

I'm not gonna lay a trip of negativity out there tonight. I think it's a good night for relaxation, unwinding, and reflection. I hope you're out there, feeling those warm vibrations, and using them to assuage you aching soul. Shalom.

My oh my won't ya keep on rockin'
-Scott

4-3: The boundaries of acceptable social behaviour

There are too many pretzels in these Bits n' Bites.

Yesterday was indeed Father's Day. It went off sort of without an ordeal. We had didnner at dad's, although against the spirit of the holiday, he cooked. In retrospect we probably should have, since it was just burgers anyway. We got him a bottle of gin; when I bought mine, he expressed a desire for some. Turns out he'd bought some for himself, albeit a different brand (Beefeater as opposed to Bombay Sapphire.) He liked it anyhow. Deb's son Alex, who was there, remarked in passing that he disliked gin, although that stems from a childhood incident where he, much to his immediate regret, attempted to do shots with it. I said of course, if you want shots you take tequila (or rum or whiskey.) He reasoned that you don't care what you drink when you're like 14 and just trying to have a saturday night. Well, now he's a grown-up (more or less) and gin isn't a drink for kids. Of all the liquors I can think of, it's the most sophisticated.

When I was younger, the kids all drank vodka and rum. I hated them both, still do, but gin has a more relaxing, refreshing appeal, particularly when mixed with tonic and/or lime/lemon. Starting to get outta beer, I suppose. I still like it, but it has been unkind to me in recent years. I probably don't visit with it enough. Eric, meanwhile, has been working for months at becoming a beer connoisseur.

Very little of note happened today, although I'm less down than I must've seemed during my last-night's entry. Eh, you know how it gets on a lonely Sunday night, and the whole weekend/life has passed you by. I hate partying on Fridays because it makes Saturay such a letdown. I'd rather do nothing on Friday and then stay out til 3 on Saturday and sleep in Sunday.

I got at some of the paperwork for my journey to University. I tried to get through OSAP but much to my dismay I could not actually locate my course. Um, uh-oh. Well I at least managed to fill out my transfer of credit application. Which means I'll be able to shave like a half a semester off my tenure. Not really optimistic about that but hoping for the best. After all, I did 2 years of school at an accredited post-secondary program, it should count for something.

As I alluded, major Interneta update last night. More coming sooner than later. I hope.

There are so many people I haven't seen in so long. And so many people I won't see for so long, too. Lord knows when I'm going to see Wheeler again. And Becky. Doug's in Mass. Certain friends are abroad, asleep, or otherwise snubbing. Many of them have lives, which I understand is important to some people. I've been working on that, but so far, still no luck. Muthafuck.

I mentioned snubbing. Not to be hurtful, and if I've visually seen you in the last month then this doesn't really apply to you, but let's face it. It happens. You get busy, you can't carry a conversation too long or make time, you know, that's what I'm getting at. I know -- or at least hope -- it's not intentional or intended as a slight against me, or anybody else who feels he or she has been snubbed, but shit man, this is going on and in some cases, loathe as I am to admit it, it does test the bounds of a friendship. I hope I'm not guilty of this myself, because I literally have nothing going on, and 99% of the time would have no reason not to see someone if the act would be generally convenient.

So, I mean, I guess that's what's on my mind today. A little venting, not too venomous I should hope. Just food for thought. Fuckin'.... be good to your friends, you know?

I followed up on that "getting up early" thing, at least to the tune of an hour or two. Woke up this morning to Paul McCartner's The Long and Winding Road. What they say about that song is true... it's a nice song done shittily (orchestra overdubs, choral singing.) Fuck Phil Spector. Fucking wife-abusing, gun-toting, wig-wearing alleged murderer. He probably did it. And just based on his look he'll probably be convicted. He's a terrible person who, once upon a time, in the years before my father had armpit hair, made a few hit singles for interchangeable girl groups (example: the fucker would produce a song with whatever singers he had around and release it under the name of whatever group he could, even if said group was unaware the song was being recorded.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, I woke up early this morning. And I got coffee and I went about my business and accomplished little extra, because my life generally revolves around 1:00, when Degrassi comes on. If it weren't for that show I'd probably have accomplished more, but no... they stuck it in the middle of the day, and I'm addicted. Coffee, degrassi, bike ride, relax, that's my fucking life four days a week, wednesdays I buy comics. Never followed through on that idea of applying to Rich. Always too nervous to ask. I have problems (in my head, I mean.)

I really am finding it harder to be a gentleman every day.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotts

4-2: Drained dry of wet water

Good evening Oakville, Indonesia and Korea.

This won't be my best post. It will not be a very good post. It was not a very good weekend. It wasn't a bad weekend. It just wasn't worth writing about. I wish I had someone else's problems (that would in exchange mean that someone else had my problems, including, presumably, my inability to handle them despite their relative irrelevance.)

The job search has taught me something, and it's not a good thing, that I can accomplish just as much (if not more!) by taking absolutely no action than by setting out to accomplish something.

Yeah, that's actually terrible.

I can't bring myself to do the things I am supposed to. I'm quite full of angst, annoyance and frustration. What am I doing? What am I supposed to do? How do I make the transition? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I'm losing my cool!

I had this dream last night, it was my Convocation ceremony again. Mark Knopfler was there, because I had been listening to Dire Straits the night before. nothing in the dream made any sense (Knopfler was in fact a decrepit old man when he probably in fact has many good years left.) So in my dream, I think, "This is fuckedup," and wake up. Even my dreams are frustrated.

I cannot do this much longer, this bullshit job-search. It shouldn't be this difficult, but then again, as a 20-year-old man, I should also be able to eat in public places without wanting to evacuate. But I find I still have that problem. That's part of the reason why I will not work in food service, because it gives me a similar feeling, except worse because that's other peoples' food. I'm aheadcase man, and I hate this entry because that's all I can concentrate on right now. My failings.

Bluhhhh. Funny stuff, though; I hadn't checked my e-mail in about three weeks. This is partly because it's such a hassle to get into it, and partially because I owe my scene and heard editor an article and was afraid he'd be wondering where it was. Well I finally bit the bullet and checked the e-mail, and the only thing in there was an offer, from the beginning of the month sometime, to go to another movie's press screening (a small one, though,) and telling me not to stress on the article too badly. I had seriously underestimated that guy's coolness.

And that put me at ease tonight, but I'm still lost in the grand scheme of things. Still not feeling too funny, still can't concentrate on stuff I should have taken care of. Still can't find a job, still going on a very long time without any meaningful physical contact with a woman (no matter how I spin it it's still a long time... a year and a half, two years or three years, take your pick.) But can I really complain?

After all, I guess that's just my lot. I got no job, no woman, but really, for now, no worries. It's not like I'm hurting, it's not like I have anyone to please but myself. But how did Lennon put it, "Please please me, woah yeah, like I'd please youuuu."

I finally finished an article for Interneta for once, it'll be up with some new reviews (long-overdue in some cases.)

I'm going to start getting up early. All summer last year I got up at 9 AM and I felt OK about it. At the end of this year I got a bit comfortable with a flexible schedule, but I think I'm sleeping too much of my life away. The other day I got up at 11:30. Yerk. There's so much more I could be doing. Maybe.

There's some deadwood I should be clearing from the path of my life. Oh lordy won'tcha keep on rockin'
-Scott

4-1: From whence there is no return!

Sometimes, a cold shower can do some good.

See, a few months ago, we had had enough with the loose hot water faucet in our shower, which was probably costing mom big bucks in heating and water, or something. So she had Tim go at it and he basically fixed it. I say basically, because he left us with a much less noticeable but infinitely more frustrating problem in its place... the hot and cold taps are now way out of whack and we can't get a good comfortable medium anymore. It's either too hot or too cold. No just right for this goldilocks. But in my ongoing quest for inner peace via caffeine I generally go out and do stuff first, then come home and shower. The logic there is that when I go out in the mornings, I come back sweaty, so a shower would be advantageous, as opposed to wasted (getting clean then getting dirty.) There's a metaphor in there, but lord knows I can't find it.

Last night was actually a good example of how things can actually surprise you with how well they go. How smoothly, that is. I had made arrangements to go see Cary's play in Hamilton on Thursday with Lauren. That fell through, perhaps not surprisingly, as she's at this very busy summative/exam study time of Grade 12. So she's all stressed out and tells me she can't make it, and for unrelated reasons, neither can Chrisbrown, my usual ride. He was apparently at the dentist thursday and had to work Friday. But Chris F., Pat and Sonya were definitely going on Friday with Cassie driving, so it was suggested I try to get in on that. A quick MSN convo with Chris later and it's set up. That must've been Wednesday night.

We had made arrangements to go grocery-shopping with dad this week. Mom usually drives (and naturally does hers at the same time,) but was busy. Thinking I was going to a play on Thursday (the night we typically grocery-shop,) I suggested we go on Friday. When it was finalized that I was in fact going on Friday, I had to re-arrange it for Thursday, last-minute. A minor inconvenience I suppose, and nothing bad came from it - in fact, for an inconvenience, it was actually quite convenient. Pardon me, I'm not used to things going ok for me.

So last night rolls around and it's basically understood although not really confirmed that I'm going. We ate a quick dinner at dad's so I could be back home in good time for a pickup. Shortly after 6, Chris comes on and says "Okay, we'll be by in like 10 minutes." After significantly more than 10 minutes, they roll up and I hope in. Cassie narrowly avoided hitting my dog with her car (which surely would have put a damper on the evening,) and we were rollin' on.

We got to the theatre more than an hour early, so we bought our tickets (which were, in fact, just S's scribbled on the backs of our hands) and went off in search of food, as the other 4 hadn't eaten yet. So we sought out a McDonald's at Jackson Square, a nearby mall I described to Pat as "a wretched hive of scum and villainy" (a Star Wars reference for which he high-fived me.) We split off, as the McD's was apart from the regular food court. I went to a newsstand or something and bought a coke (being in the words of Forrest Gump, "Not hungry but thirsty.") Then I wandered the halls looking for the food court, in generally the wrong places, before turning back and finding Pat. Pat's actually a great navigator as we got our bearings in the labyrinthine mall, and Pat mused "I wonder if Chris will find us," some snarky passerby replied, "Oh, he will." we got to the court and, after finding a table with some spare change on it, sat and waited for him to catch back up with us. He did, as did the girls. There wasn't too much time for eating, though, as we had to book it back to the theatre for the show.

It's worth mentioning at this point that I felt I desperately needed to appear at the show. This is because a few weeks ago I told Cary that if he hadn't come to my place (the first weekend of June) I would not have come to his show. It was partly in jest, but I really am that petty. It would hardly be sporting of me to go and not appear anyway.

Cary, at one point, was going to do Half-Past Eight PM, but as these things usually go, the show was quatsched when nobody really auditioned. I still think it would be cool to see him do it, but the play's got a big cast to it.

So we went in and the show eventually began. Cary was in a show called "The Devil's Parole," which consists of a lengthy pun-filled conversation between Beelzebub and Yaweh, on the Devil convincing the Lord that he deserves to be let out of hell. It was pretty funny, I laughed plenty. Cary's still a natural performer, although watching him brought back far too many memories of Grade 12. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe it isn't. But there's like a 50/50 chance he's reading this, so I might as well re-iterate that I thought it was a very funny play, although some of the gags most notably, the "Ben Affleck" bit, were underdeveloped. Great last line, though. All in all, a 4/5.

After a brief intermission and some mingling with Cary's family as well as Rosser, we headed back in for the second show, which was called "Never Swim Alone." I thought it was excellent. With all due respect to Cary and his show, "Never Swim Alone" was by and large a better play, even if some of the themes were very rapidly brought up and blown off, as well as some mixing of metaphors in the writing. It was generally higher-level stuff, though, with ace performances, a good grasp of emotion, and a tonne of big laughs. At one point, this dude in the front row was in hysterics - for no great reason mind you, and the actor onstage interrupted his monologue by noting, "That man may have a kitten." (The whole play was addressing the audience anyway.) I'd like to write a play like that, which combines various themes and deeper connectivity of emotions with some good dialogue. I'm not saying I'd like to have written that play, but I'd like to write one that is more like "Never Swim Alone" than like "Half-Past Eight PM," which I still love but would like to go beyond someday. It was a 4.5/5.

We said goodbye and, after getting a little lost on our way out of Hamilton, headed back to Oakville for an impromptu Risk game at Pat's place. Well we did stop off at dominion for snacks, which were more sugar based than carb-based than I would have liked, so I ended up having a major crash by the end of the night. Cassie joined us, as she wanted to learn how to play, so we taught her and it ended up being a good night. We tried to get ahold of Chrisbrown but he eluded us.

The thing with Risk, why we do it, is not really to play Risk per se. Risk is just the uniting factor. It just happens to be more interesting and competitive than any other board game, as well as being about merciless slaughter. It's just good to have a guys' night. A regular gathering of dudes you can chill with and not talk about anything with beyond what movies suck, and how you're going to attempt to take over a continent. We mentinoed Risk to Rosser and he got this glaze of nostolgia in his eyes for the days when he and his theatre friends used to play regularly, with costumes and roleplaying. Pat and I chuckled, it hasn't gotten to that yet.

So it was guys' night, disregarding the fact that Cassie was there. And we played Risk until 3:00, when it was just Chris and Pat, and Chris reluctantly agreed it was a draw. I got to bed at 3:30.

That's my story. It's not all that interesting, but it's what happened and I never claimed this blog to be interesting or consistently entertaining, at least not deliberately. I don't think there's anyone out there by now who's bitchy enough to wonder why the fuck I bothered to type all that shit out. It's just how it works, and has worked, for almost 800 posts by now. Fuck.

So that's life, I guess. I'm not feeling all that deep today, but that's not such a bad thing. A little lighter of spirit, aside from a little of the ole shadow of loneliness. Nothing I can't handle. I just gotta keep out of the sun.

Cut through the water to the point. Cut through the water to the point.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

3-3: We've all got a mind to blow

I don't really feel funny tonight.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of times when I have "not felt funny" and still been a likeable, affable, outgoing person. I'm not upset about anything and I'm not likely to suffer a nervous breakdown of some sort. But I was considering doing some work on some funny comics before going to bed, and when faced with the task I just sighed and decided that, if pressed, I couldn't give it the energy it required. It's my second day of break from it.

I just feel fatigued is all. Maybe too much sun. Maybe too many hobbies and not enough of a life. There are sayings about people who fill their lives with hobbies. I don't know any of them but they're certainly not flattering. Memorizing quotes is not one of my hobbies.

Kind of unfortunately, I am exhausted. Exhausted with expectations and arrangements and preparations for the future. Overwhelmed perhaps, and certainly severely taxed for patience for the outside world. I thought I was giong to a play tonight, and thorugh nobody's fault I didn't, as my ride couldn't go so que sera sera and I'll go tomorrow... and it's just as well since we had to grocery shop. Boring night, boring day, boring life.

But I've got to take hold of some responsibility, because the more I sit and while away the hours on filler, the less time I devote to making my aforementioned preparations and arrangements for the inevtiable future... which threatens to confront me very soon. Originally I had written "sooner than I'd expected" but I certainly knew the deal going in, and everything is going according to schedule, except for me of course.

What a damn day to feel fatigued. It was cool out, a nice breeze. Could've worn long pants, but didn't, thinking it may have gotten hotter than it did. Dad and I had a lengthy conversation the other night about caffeine. He doesn't seem to think it's addictive, although he admits he drinks upwards of 6 cups of coffee each day. I'm no scientist so I can't say it's chemically addictive but I know it's damn habit forming. Each morning I waste an hour going for coffee, jsut to waste an hour and be able to say "Okay, I've had coffee, let's move on with the day." Elsewise I'd probably just sit there going "Should I go for coffee?" It's my crutch, my fucking day planner man.

It won't be spring anymore soon. I've got to mourn that because in the future spring could mean something different altogether, as it pertains to the weather. And what a damn day for my allergies to be on the brink... not killing me, but jabbing at my septum with fiery ferocity. Hachoo. Snort.

I say I don't feel funny. And yet, as Eric and I sat down to collaborate on a project this afternoon - long spoken-of and put off - I was certainly being funny. I've got it, I know, it's all in how you choose to use it. And for now, I've put it away. Tomorrow I'll open up the toybox and probably have at it again.

There's nothing wrong today. There just isn't anything particularly right, either.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

3-2: We're all broken!

There are buildings on the horizon
Every day they keep a'risin'
And they weren't there the day before
But tomorrow there'll be more.

That's a little poem I composed in my head when I suddenly realized, walking down a street I have travelled many times since my youth, construction in the distance has changed the distant skyline to feature rather than low trees and stout suburban houses, far-off high-rise condos behind that. And of course there's the obvious meaning but I think you can feel free to think about it and let it grow in your mind and interpret it how you wish, as that is the best part of poetry, interpretation. I should get back in contact with my poetry teacher, Catherine Graham, who was a very nice, intelligent and affable woman.

I have a lot I need to be doing. I have a bunch of forms to deal with, which seems daunting and so I am avoiding it. I have a comic that I have been working like a madman on, so I'm taking a break. I have some comics to review, which I intend to get done tonight. Similarly, I intend to finally write that damn article for Scene and Heard which has been put off by my own disgruntled laziness. I envision it as being a late night, if only because I am full of caffeine and intend to get fuller. But before any of that, I need to get this post out.

Maybe there's no such thing as an ending. There's been a lot of talk about the Sopranos finale. I don't watch the show, but my brother does and, just after it aired, he described it to me. For those unaware - or if enough time has passed and some months from now I'm trying to remember - it involved the titular family in a diner, some parallel parking, Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" (a guilty pleasure song I'll admit,) and a very abrupt cut to black. So people were kinda miffed, furious about the ambiguous ending, but you know I think there's something to be said for ambiguity. There are no final chapters but death. On my last moments of high school, as you will all well recall, I had to wake up the next morning (after prom) knowing that I had to see those people as much as possible, and deal with my movie. Nothing was truly over. And on New Year's Eve, the sins of the year are not magically wiped clean and there are no do-overs. We just continue to live our lives, usually more hung-over than the night before. I just graduated Sheridan but I'm hardly done with anything. I guess it's sorta like what Semisonic sang... every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. Except sorta backwards or inverse.

I say this mostly because, for whatever reason, I found myself at the WOSS Drama Banquet this afternoon. Well, I know the reason; Wilford went to the trouble of tracking me down on Facebook (not altogether difficult if you've ever Facebook-stalked,) and the gesture seemed like a very nice one. Chrisbrown and Emma were there, as was Scott Conorton and a few of the year-above me. Sarah H., in particular, I never got to know but is in fact a very bright charismatic funny girl.

Anyway, we were talking and I got to thinking about how, even though I graduated and walked away from the school seemingly forever - even wagging middle fingers at the building - I have sat in that drama room so many times, I have spoken to those students (including people I never met until graduating) so much, I never truly ended it. And I may carry that with me, always. And you know, that's not such a bad thing as I thought at first. As high as a tree grows, it never outgrows its roots. Or something.

I think that's it for tonight all.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

3-1: If they say I never loved you...

(...You know they are a liar...)

Colbert was interviewing a video-blogger earlier tonight, who was jailed for not surrendering his tapes to the feds. The whole thing was rather like the ejaculative wet-dream of a Mitro~~* first-year class. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it was in fact quite enlightening, but man do I have a different perspective on the media since then.

I don't know how long exactly I've wanted to write. Truthfully it's the only thing I can remember caring about doing enough to get good at or trying to learn about (although in consequence that led to an interest in many diverse things to varying degrees.) But a good indication of my long-running affair with writing comes from thisa instance in Grade 6... we were told as part of a class project to determine a job... a career or occupation for ourselves as adults. I picked writer. I don't know what I envisioned myself writing, because I wasn't aware at the time of how big the world is, I just wanted to write... comics, I imagine. So I had that written down, "Writer." Then my teacher, the wonderful Mrs. Gativeckas (or however it was spelled,) announced that there was a comet headed toward the Earth and that everybody had to state their case in a brief speech, based on their occupation, why they should be allowed a spot in the fallout shelter (like in the Simpsons episode Bart's Comet) and the class would vote on a handful of survivors. I was stumped, because I even knew at the time that I had chosen a profession that is viewed as unessential, so when it came time for me to give my speech, I said something along the lines of this:

"Okay, so, there's this comet headed toward Earth and we need to save the most important and useful people. Um, my job is a writer, and I guess you don't need me, so I guess I'll just go off somewhere and let myself get killed. Thanks, bye."

The class erupted into laughter and I was very nearly elected into the shelter based on that. Unfortunately, Carrie McGrath (Jon's brainy younger sister - it was a split class) had declared herself, I think and the last minute, to be a horticulturist and thus she would be needed to help re-grow plantlife. Or something. So she edged me out, but I guess the positive vibes I got following that bizarre self-deprecating tirade cemented my desire to write for a living. After all, it very nearly saved me from a falling comet, which was my #1 fear between grades 4 and 7.

In that vein, I've been a busy little writer lately, at least in my head I've got a lot going on. I've got stories, artticles, rants, reviews, and most importantly, a new comic that is taking my (currently very abundant) free time. To top all that jive off, I went out and handed out some resumes today. I had intended to apply at a convenience store (you know the one I mean.) I was inspired to do this after stopping in there (the ongoing quest for Black Cherry Vanilla Coke also takes a lot of my time these days) and seeing a sign in the window, suggesting people should apply, and touting their website. So, okay, back home and off to the website I go, and they have a little section saying "If you are personable, capable of smiling, and can lift 60 lbs, why not send us your resume? We're always looking for people. Check out our store locator to find a location near you." Well, I could've guessed who they were looking for, and I already knew where the store was - as that's how I found the website in the first place! So I dusted off my resumes and headed out to the store to drop it off.

While passing the complex, I noticed that a nearby M&M's Meat Shop was also hiring. It seemed like a do-able job, uncomplicated and not severely food preparation-related so I figured I'd drift my resume their way too. I stopped in and said "You have a Help Wanted Sign, I'd like to hand in my resume." The lady was very polite and asked if I'd be available in the fall. I told her I wasn't, and she said that's too bad, because that's what they're looking for. I tried not to get too glum, and said that in any case if they decided they just wanted someone for the summer (as if anyone ever got hired with the understanding it wasn't permanent - oh wait that's my last two jobs) they could call me. She took a pen and wrote "Not available for Fall" across the top of the resume and then noted, positively I suppose, that I was OK for summer. So I guess we'll see how that turns out, but I'm not exactly banking on it. I still think that it's a bit of a trip to expect someone to commit to fall when your help wanted sign is out at the beginning of the summer job season (where are these "summer" jobs, anyway, and how can I get one?) Not to mention that she asked if I was over 18, so seemingly that's conditional, and most people over 18 are committed to school in the fall, so the likelihood of them sticking around into September is slim, unless they aren't looking for someone who's just "over 18" but are in fact looking for middle-aged people who have no better options. Some hiring policies are downright baffling.

So I went on to the convenience store, and told them I noticed they had a sign in the window and asked if they were looking for someone. Rather brusquely he grumbled "Nah, not right now," which I guess makes sense considering the following three factors:

1) They have a sign in the window indicating they are looking for people, please see the website

2) The website claims they are "always" looking for people

3) My life by this point has become a comical series of circular anti-logic designed to send me on pointless adventures where I never truly accomplish anything but end up sitting at this blog wondering how exactly this whole thing happened.

Yes, given that those three things are all true, it's easy to see how they are not, in fact, hiring. Moderately dejected (to keep it real, I often tell myself when I have not performed well in these situation, "Who wants to work for that asshole anyway?") I set back on my way home.

And, I mean, that was my day. I also got my watch fixed, a little pricier than I'd have liked, (and I even got the cheapest strap humanly possible, so I'll be replacing it probably before too long, shelling out more bucks,) but hey, I'd been putting it off plenty.

Annoyingly, my resume has my Sheridan e-mail address on it, not taking into account that I haven't checked it in like a month by now (a little less but close - this computer makes a hassle out of it) but I doubt that any of those places I've turned it in would send an e-mail and forego the usual phonecall-method. It's really more for business, which I don't seem to be doing much of these days anyway.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
And make sure you keep on rockin' against the dyin' of the light
-Scotto

2-3: There is no world but this one

And we are yet far from finished discovering it. Oh the wonders of this dimension!

Uneventful day by and large. I did end up getting that haircut, albeit not from the girl I like. Not that it makes much difference to the outcome of the haircut... it is, as usual, quite short, and I feel good for finally having gotten it. I also finally located a watch-repair place, which after all the crazy running around, is apparently also in the mall, not unlike Times Square originall was. Go fig.

I need a life. I find it hard to believe or anticipate the turn my life will be taking in a few months. G-ulp. I need to get to work on some shite.

I had this dream last night. It felt more like two or three dreams, it was really effed up. It felt like it had a cast of thousands. I can remember three distinct chapters but not exactly the order they occurred in. In what I assume to be the first, I was someplace... and there is so much complex set-up to this that has evaporated upon waking, but what I remember is that somehow I found myself with Criss Angel (Mindfreak) at his house, and being attacked by his bear. Yeah, he had a bear, and it attacked me. And when I say attacked, I don't just mean it chased after me... I mean, it had its claws wrapped around me and was about to eat me.

The next part, presumably after I had escaped, saw me and a girl I know (and who has recently regained contact with me) lost in some unfamiliar town looking for a way home. So we were going to take the train when we realized we had no money for tickets. Somehow, I pilfered a few out of the account of my brother's friend Graeme (whom I have never met in person) and were set to go... when suddenly he appeared, noticing that several thousand dollars had been removed from his account, presumably by us. So there the three of us are outside this weird lot/factory/warehouse/house at the edge of town... and we get attacked by Graeme. So yeah, trend. Luckily, jumping in in time to rescue us is my friend, Conorton, who works as a security guard at Sheridan (naturally, he was working in this capacity in the dream, although we certainly were not at Sheridan.) They tussled for a while, and while in reality Conorton could rightly kick ole Graeme's arse, (being younger, tougher and fitter,) they were at a stalemate here. And that's when me mom, Grandma, aunt Lori and great-grandma showed up and we went into the house for a gathering. It was in particular a neat trick for great-grandma to show up, because she's been dead for 7 years. Not that dreams need logic, but I was even aware of that in the dream, that I knew she's been dead.

The bizarre gathering eventually dispersed in a tedious way. My brother Eric and I met up to break into my old house at Madden Blvd, to take food and use the rest room. Then we were attacked by zombies.

So yeah, weird dreams. I'd consult the dream interpretor what "being repeatedly attacked" is supposed to represent in a dream, but it would probably just tell me, "You are constantly afraid of your life being overwhelming" or something, perhaps with an equally gauche working. In any case, simplistic. I'm more interested in the nature of the imagery than their interpretations. Why Conorton? Why zombies? Why a bear and Criss Angel (Mindfreak?) So weird.

Anyway, that's my psychological junksale for tonight all. I need to get my act together.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

2-2: Virtue can be vice

And vice versa. (Wordplay-blam!)

It's a nice spring day out. Not ungodly hot or humid like some recent days, or like it will inevitably become. Not allergy-laden. Nothing but a cool breeze on a warm day with a few of them puffy clouds. Stratus? I can't remember grade 10 science.

I was supposed to get a haircut today. I didn't, because it looked very busy and the girl I like wasn't there. I wonder if she'll be in tomorrow; I need a haircut real bad. Not that she's the only one who I can have cut my hair, but I didn't feel like waiting too long today. Okay, and also I really just wanted her; sue me. But I'll get it done tomorrow no matter what.

Today was an odd day. This new girl moved in, which happened really fast. In the middle of last week, Eric mentioned that his friend knew this girl who was lookingfor a place, and she (the friend) knew that we rent out a room, so she asked. Eric admitted the room was vacant and thus set it up. The deal, for however-much-per-week, was apparently a dealmaker for mom, who hadn't had much luck renting the room out thus far this summer. So today, suddenly this afternoon there's a U-Haul parked outside out house. Eric has been a little nervous about it, I'll tell ya, because he was responsible, and if, if, if it goes badly, it might affect his friendship. You know how it goes.

Yesterday too was a weird day. All I wanted to do was relax all day, with some microwaved leftover pizza and a Coke and my iPod, on which I have clearly become dependant for sanity. We'd ordered pizza Friday night from Domino's, as Eric and I agreed the other places were getting old, and Brando never cares one way or the other. It's fuggin' expensive and pretty good but not the greatest in the world (although it certainly is distinctive.)

So I'm getting ready to chill out when my earphone cable snags on a doorknob or something, tweaks it, and kills the left one. Historically, I have bad luck with earphones/headphones. Oftentimes they just plain get destroyed, or the wire will fray, or something. I hate having to replace it and had been very glad, until yesterday of course, to see the seening quality of the iPod's earphones (I have long since adapted to my once-loathed in-ear phones as they are more portable.) So I had to schlep down to the mall and try to pick out some new phones. Being a cheapass, I got the cheapest pair I could ($3.99) at HMV. While I was thre, I also snagged How I Met Your Mother on DVD, normally $49.99, for 50% off, cheap bugger I am. But anyway I got home and found that, unsurprisingly, the shit-ass generic cheap-phones were not going to cut it, so back out I went, this time, to the Source formerly Radio Shack by Circuit City (say that ten times fast.) I examined in serious depth between several very similar-seeming earphones, knowing that one of them was undoubtedly shit. At last, a sales representative came to ask if he could help. I explained my story (much more succinctly, apparently, than I am now) and asked the difference between the top two I had been holding. He tells me:

"Well, these will break, and these probably won't."

Well, that sells me. To punch it further, the "Will Not Breaks" from JVC cost a couple bucks less, so that all together I only spend a little over $20 on two pairs of headphones I could have avoided had I not caught myself on a fucking doorknob. Hurray!

Before I ifnally replaced them, I was so wound up too. It was sad, and I knew it, but my impulse was indeed to cry like a little baby when my earphones busted, so I went with it.

What a boring fucking weekend. That's my story. Oey.

I'm too tired to go on anyway. I'm exhausted from the nothing. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

2-1: We killed our Gods

I need to get a second wind and unwind, for another night I will have whined without being wined.

Ahm, wordplay indeed.

I was considering asking this girl out. No, that's not accurate... "considering" seems to imply that I had any intention of doing so. In retrospect, it was more about idly wondering how it would work out. I don't know. It's been a long time since I bothered to ask a girl out, mostly because I kinda got tired of rejection. Now, that sounds harsh, but it's true, and I got to this point where my desire to avoid rejection overtook my desire to get close to women... and that, folks, is the definition of lame.

It's not as though these so-called rejections were particularly cruel, just that rejection is an inherently disheartening experience, and repeated exposeure to it really kills one's enthusiasm, at an exponential rate for those into the Maths.

Yes, my outlook on life is certainly very upbeat lately.

I got a very polite rejection form-letter from the Online Magazine I submitted that story to. I didn't take it that hard because it's jsut a story - they get like 140 submissions for a single issue and can only "print" 4 so it's no insult they you're not picked (although why only four is a mystery as this is an E-ZINE.) The letter was very nice although somewhat unnecessary as the new issue went up days and days ago and I already knew I was not picked. It was encouraging, which is nice, although in including encouraging words for everyone, they also encourage people who are always going to be shitty writers, thus ensuring the continued barrier against people who are eitehr good or have potential (depending on how I feel about myself on a given day I fall into one of those categories.)

The story itself wasn't that great and will find its way onto Interneta sooner or later. I liked it a lot while I was writing it and still think it's very sweet, but from a technical standpoint it's a bit rushed, owing to the fact that I wrote it in a couple rapid sessions and did not revise (I rarely do although I can acknowledge when it's necessary.) I already sent them The Insomniac back in March. Next time I figure I'll send them Oscar Lloyd, as that seems to have gotten consistently good feedback.

My main trend recently has been to set about doing something and then not doing it. My problem is an abundance of time and a lack of enthusiasm. I have so many hours in a day they're all cluttered with avoiding boredom with idle pursuits rather than actual accomplishment, hence, things get put off. I'm so backed up you have no idea.

Allergies! Augh, itchy, watery eyes. Reactine you deceiptful shrew, you promised you would fix all my problems! Oh, the betrayal! Oh, the humanity!

I need a haircut. Oh so badly. It's getting out of control.

That's all on this humid summer night
KIeep on rockin'
-Scotto

1-3: I settled on insanity

Urgh. Wednesday nights. Who knows, man, what's out there.

Funny how the blog records when I start writing a post... last night's entry is dated at something like 10:30 PM but it took over 2 hours to write and was posted after midniught.

My greatest fear, at this current moment, is that I'll toil away my entire life in obscurity with no reward. I don't think I have the patience for that. I passed by a bookstore today displaying a copy of "A Confederacy of Dunces" in the window. The writer of the book committed suicide 11 years before its publication but it has become a cult classic and even earned him a posthumous Pulitzer prize. The same thing happened to Kafka, renowned as one of literature's finest minds of the early 20th century. He asked his friend Max Brod to burn all his writings. Max, being a good friend, had them arranged for publication instead.

I hope that after my death, nobody scavenges my files and has them all published. I would at least hope that the person who would be charged with the task would be judicious as a lot of my writing is pure shit. Some of it is OK and a bit of it is good enough that I think it should be published. I mean, in the last 5 or 6 years, I've written a lot of stuff, and a great deal of it is unimaginably terrible.

After I die... and I do apologize for the morbid tone this entry seems to be taking but it's not like I think it is near... I definitely want someone, or a number of someones, to step up and deliver a whopping massive eulogy for me. Early last year, I attended my Great-Grandfather's funeral. He was over 100 years old and had been an important part of many peoples' lives, and yet nobody was called on to speak. I want to do what they had Bill McNeil say in his will when he was written off NewsRadio after Phil Hartman's death. He demanded that Dave give him a very long funeral and that "Anything under 4 hours will be totally unacceptable." I want people to be absolutely sick of hearing about my life by the end, because it's my funeral and that's all anyone should think about anyway. And it'd be okay if the 4-hours-plus were split among various people, because I may mean different things to different people. I just don't want the chance for memorialization to go unheeded.

Oh, and for my friends, provided we are not all very old, I want there to be a superbadass party afterward that night. It's what I would have wanted.

I'm also very concerned that, after I am gone, this is all people will know of me. These paragraphs are hardly exemplary of who I am as a person or a writer. More a picture of me as a bored lonely guy night after night.

I narrowly avoided another attempt by some third party to have me grow up, by the way. It's a weird story. I had just gotten in from Blockbuster where Eric and I were returning a movie (more on that later) and Tim called down saying there had been a call for me, which I thought sounded absurd. He had told me it was "Investors Insurance," which sounded even more ridiculous due to my not having any knowledge of investments or insurance. But I found the number in the phone's memory and asked for the man who had called, (Thomas.) He picked up a moment later and I said my name is Scott Williams, I was told you called for me.

"Yes, we were wondering if you'd be interested in a position as a financial advisor?"

Gwuh?

For the record, I wasn't totally confused, just utterly taken aback by the suddenness of it all. Months ago, back in February when I was absolutely stone-cold freaked out about having no internship, I put my resume up on Monster.com to highlight my capabilities and professional qualifications as a potential intern. There were no bites. So this is where I figure they found me. So they offered me this job. My response...

"Um, I don't really think I'm actually qualified."

He explained that it was more about personality and that they would compensate while I would undergo a 5 week training program. While tempting as far as "seemingly dead-end career options I have no interest in but could net me my first steady paycheck of my adult life" goes, I informed him that I would in fact be attending University this fall and unable to give a long-term commitment, and he thusly thanked me for my time, I thanked him for the offer, and we parted ways.

It was nice, I'll say, to just randomly get an offer like that. The system - by which I mean, my sitting around waiting for opportunities to crop up - works aftre all, although it's not hardly an effective one, it at least shows that I'm getting something out of that arrangement. I've officially gotten more job offers off Monster.com than the Sheridan Job Centre ever netted me.

Butuhyeah... with University looming on the horizon, I certainly do have to get my crap together. The thing about theoretically taking that position would be... I don't see Financial Advisors getting laid. I'll admit that at this point in my life, more than anything, my every decision is based more or less on "Is there any remote chance this might get me some action?" Hey man, I'm in the midst of a 3-year cold streak as far as females go, with a 1-night break at the year-and-a-half mark. Few factors weigh so heavily on my mind.

I just don't know what to do with myself.

We were at Blockbuster and we noticed that the parking lot was suspiciously full, particularly for a Wednesday afternoon. There was nothing we wanted to rent, so we went over to Rabba. I waited outside as he stood in checkout line and saw a crazy foreign guy having a row with a dude in a car, each calling for the other to "fuck off!" and for the guy in the car to call the forgeigner a "douchebag" before driving off. I continued to watch as the foreigner - apparently the Rabba's manager - discussed with another guy, seemingly the manager of Gino's Pizza, "what to do" about this, with one asserting that this is "the mall's problem," apparently Monaghan's had (the game?) on and people were clamoring to see the Senators fulfill my prediction that the Ducks would beat them in 5 games. People were parked on the median for God's sake, it was a nuisence.

Anyway, the playoffs are over now and life can go back to my not having to pretend to give a crap about hockey.

Well anyway, I'm tired.

Keep on rockin' out there,
-Scotto

1-2: Go further, come back sooner

It seems like these days, I've got a lot of things to reflect on.

Just over a week ago, I turned 20, which means the gradual easing into some kind of maturity or responsibility or somethingt. I was asked on the weekend how I felt about being this age, and I said that I no longer have a free pass to awkwardness (that's one of the few things I remember saying before diving headfirst into drunkeness.)

The good thing is virtually all of my friends from school are at least a little bit older than I am, most particularly Amanda, who is not only the closest to me (geographically, friendship-wise, etc) but also among the furthest in age, although Mansoor is older and has also been a very good friend these past two years. Seeing myself reflected in all these people, and getting along with them, not just as a little brother or something but as a contemporary, gives me hope for the future (and hope, historically, is something I'm hard to come by.)

Today was my Sheridan Graduation Commencement Ceremony. It illustrated to me how, when you reach a certain point of development/maturity/experience/grownupishness, and can no longer be reasonably looked at by society as a child, the immediate response is that the world starts treating you like shit. I don't know, it just kinda does and maybe some of you might notice things like this now that I've mentioned it... as follows.

The ceremony was to begin at 10:00 and the invitation said to arrive two hours early. I'd actually forgotten what day it was (other than assuming it was the first tueday in June but not paying it mind) until yesterday when two tickets arrived for me. My invitation had arrived some weeks earlier and was labelled "This invitation entitles SCOTT WILLIAMS and two others to attend this ceremony." I assumed the tickets were the extra seats I'd inquired about, given that, according to my best deciphering attempt at the convoluted application process indicated we were guaranteed two, and could attempt to order up to two extra seats if there was room.

So I told mom, who wasn't keen on driving me, so I arranged things with dad. The thing about having a graduation ceremony in the middle of a weekday morning is that if you are an employed person (unlike myself,) it screws things up for you, but at least you're a proud parent so you get over it okay. So dad was fine to drive me over, and mom would come later with Grandma. He had to stop off at work first (not far from the Living Arts Centre where the ceremony was) so he told me to get ready for 7:30.

That morning - Monday I mean - I had inexplicably been up at 6:30. I mean, I was out of bed at 6:30 after failing for the previous hour and a half to get back to sleep. It happens every so often. As you might have learned after 770 posts, I'm a bit of a headcase and this sometimes causes trouble sleeping. So after lying, eyes clenched, covers cinched, for 90 minutes, I gave in and went, in the rain, for coffee and a breakfast sandwich (which I'd been craving for days anyway, not usually being up and at 'em in time for them.) I quenched my mental hyperactivity by doing some damn good writing that morning, but was a waking corpse for the rest of the day.

So naturally, I was uneager to get up and go for 7:30 again. But it was for a reason, I had no say in the matter, so at a little before 6:30, the ascending trumpet that leads into Brian Wilson's "Smile" recording of "Heroes and Villains" called me to consciousness, as that was the first track programmed on that particular iPod playlist.

After lying idly for a few minutes - several songs, I always set alarms early enough so I can wake up and lie there for a while - I got up at about a quarter to 7, attempted to negotiate my shower into something resembling a comfortable temperature (and I'll get into that some other time, because it's a recurring theme of my life nowadays.)

I was dressed in my usual plain white cuff shirt (the "Maim in Vain" Rob shirt) and a black silk tie that is actually Eric's as well as nice pants, which is the main difference between this graduation and my highschool graduation in 2005 when I wore jeans. Not that it matters under the robe, I didn't even tuck in my shirt. I did, however, in a reversal of my freak out many months ago, tie my own damn tie with relative ease. I quipped to dad that I supposed that was part of growing up. He remarked back that I should tell my brothers that.

Against my better judgment, I hurried out of the house without food. I don't know if it slipped my mind or I thought there'd be a chance, but it was foolish anyway. And when you're hungry, everything sucks, so let's keep that in mind for the rest of this entry.

I got there, after the detour at Dad's work, and rushed over to greet an already-arrived group of Journalism dudes and dudettes, including but not limited to Amanda J., Jacklynn and Perrin. Amanda mused that it would be sad if this was all that came. A woman holding a coffee cup passed by and told us where to pick up our stuff. I asked her if there was coffee, and she told me no. I proceeded to freak out a little, as I am often to do. Then Jacklynn and I went over to the "S-Z" line to get robes and joke around about life. She's a hip lady although we didn't talk much in school, partially I'm sure because we were never in the same class. She mused about the direction her life was taking, seeming optimistic because "I'm younger than all of you," at which point I reminded her that she wasn't, because I too just turned 20 this year, in fact more recently than her, at which point she slapped me five. I told her that because of the dress she was wearing, she would probably look topless under the robe.

After getting robes, people started to file in, many of whom we recognized. We speculated on who would not be there - whether because they sadly did not graduate with us, or because they actually had something important to do on a tuesday morning. I told Amanda I didn't expect we'd see Mansoor, and she suspected we would, but when I asked why she never explained. In the end I was right. With Haasim sadly unable to make the credit (after an unfortunate scenario regarding his first-year elective,) Joe and I were the only two of our core group of four to attend. I stood and talked a while with Joe and Amanda K. Despite their recently having broken up, it didn't seem overly awkward at all, as I know that when I end involvement with a female, I scarcely continue to acknowledge her existence, at least for a while (please note that I have not had an opportunity to practise this in a rather long time.) We were then lined up by program and last name, so Melissa Wildman and I had an "end of line" party. Then there was a lot of standing and waiting, and inside of me, hunger was a-brewin.

It was around this point that I remembered how much I loved being in a room full of people I like, joking around with them. Sometimes it comes so easily and this morning was that time. In fact, it's a lot easier to crack wise when you are annoyed, bored or inconvenienced, all of which I generally was as we stood around waiting, playing with the zips on our robes and musing about our formal attire. Joe, "very intelligently" in his words, wore a suit jacket. I noted that you could shred the bottom of your shirt to bits so long as the collar and sleeves were intact, and it would make no difference.

So we were eventually herded in and settled in for the long haul. I had never heard Sheridan President Dr. Robert Turner speak, and I hope never to again, as although he is eloquent enough, his voice is akin to Michael Madson while gargling sandpaper.

The keynote speaker, whose name I didn't get but I'm sure is written in the program, was a producer from the Discovery Channel who brought the Daily Planet - the world's first televised daily science show - to life, despite being laughed out of a TV Science Producers Convention in Paris by men with decades more experience than him. He glossed over his career rise until that point, noting that you should be nice to people on your way up, so they'll be nice on your way down.

After a brief hungry eternity, we went up to start getting diplomas, or rather, funky tassled sashes and envelopes in which to enclose the diploma, which you would gett after going offstage. Because they can't give you an actual diploma, because it would be boring to watch people sort through all the files and get the name. The distribution of generic folders is, you know, more exciting. For the audience.

I got up there and had my sash put on by Mary Lynn, who told me I'd be missed. I then proceeded to get my hand shook by several well-wishers including Dr. Turner ("Congratulations, Scott," "Thanks, Doc,") the keynote speaker, the Dean of the school, (whom I referred to as "Father" in refernce to his ornate priest-like robes,) and Sandy McKean, whom I actually know, who leaned over to me as I shook his hand and told me to "Knock 'em dead." Waiting in the wings were Roy and Denni, whom I didn't get to speak to as much as I'd have liked, although Roy quipped that there was a lot of applause for me (as I was the final one of my program, and applause was finally permitted after me.) Before leaving the stag,e I turned to the crowd and gave a big thumbs-up before going backstage to get handed my stuff and go back.

So I went back and sat down again... and watched all the other people graduate for another slow, dull, hungry eternity.

At long last, the graduates all got their diplomas, and then, the big moment... the valedictorian speech. Now, I had no idea going in, but as it turns out, Mitch McKay, my good friend, was elected as valedictorian. I'll have to ask him how that came about. He delivered a great speech, opening with a joke about how rarely he did public speaking (twice in his lifetime, once in Grade 4 about his favourite roller coaster, once at an old folks home where he was given digestive cookies and prune juice.) He started by talking about Mongolia, where he'd spend his early 20's reporting (and apparently performing in Chinese Soap Operas.) most of the students dream of going to the west to be educated, and we sit in a rare controlling advantaged minority in the world to already be here. I'm not sure where he went with that but it was a striking point. He also noted that we are given so much information we don't know what to do with... recently it was revealed that although sunscreen supposedly protects against skin cancer, skin cancer is also more likely in those who don't get vitamin D from the sun because of sunscreen. And while it was suggested that you could take Vitamin D pills, it was also discovered that cancer seems to occur more often in people who take vitamins as pills rather than natural sources.

He closed with an anecdote from Kurt Vonnegut, who told it whenever he gave a commencement speech. Apparently Vonnegut had an uncle who remarked that nobody ever noticed when they were happy, and that whenever you are relaxing and enjoying life, you should just say out loud, "You know, if this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

Finally finally, after some closing remarks, we were sung out by a musical theatre student doing Josh Groban. And then we headed out. And then, and then...

And then I was tapped on the shoulder and asked to come along as soon as I got to the atrium. There was a photographer taking pictures of people, no charge. So sure, why not? I got a few snaps, apparently they'll be on the alumni website soon.

BUT in the process, I lost precious time, lost track of my classmates, lost my parents, and delayed quenching my hunger. After a little photography, I rushed back to the catering tables, dreaming of sandwiches, or fruit, or something. And what did I find?

Sweets. Cookies. Lemon cake. Bullshit! The ceremony was from 10 AM until 12:30 and if that ain't lunchtime, I don't know what is! And they were serving freaking dessert? I love sweets, don't get me wrong, but I hadn't eaten all day and I needed some damn protein!

So on top of all this, I'm stuck in a crowd with 1000 other students and their parents, looking frustratedly for people I know, with a plate loaded with sweets I didn't really want to eat. I took a few photos with Mary Lynn and Mitch because I happened to be speaking to her when he came by. Then I caught up with Roy before spotting my Grandma. She told me where my dad was and that she was going to the washroom (uh, not at the that, that was just where she was headed. Don't be gross.)

So I went and found dad, who told me to go back and find grandma and bring her over so we could take pictures. He told me that mom had to be turned away because we only had 2 tickets, the invitation itself didn't count for shit (not his exact words) uh, shit. Okay, so I felt like crap for that, and even worse for having to elbow past several static post-ceremonial grads back and forth for three or four laps to put up with it, whilst not having any actual food. Augh.

So finally we took a few photos for posterity, I returned my robe, we went home. It was an average day after that. I finally did go for food, but by that time I wasn't as hungry as I should've been (I hate when that happens) and only had an egg salad sandwich.

Oh well, though. That was a long story. Between the two posts this month so far, both are extremely long, but it's been 5 days into the month, so it sort of evens out... longer, less frequent posts, or shorter posts more regularly? Who knows. That's the question.

Gotta rest now. Night all.

Keep on rockin'
-Ol Scotto