XX: Defeat your own heroes

This entry has been a long while coming. As a matter of fact, though it is dated August 31, it's actually the next day. But I wanted these thoughts to go in the archives under August. I'm being weirdly fastidious, which is my right if'n I want.

Yesterday - which is to say, August 31, was a long morning. I had only gotten to bed sometime after 1 the night before, and was awakened just after 4 by whatever mysterious stirrings tend to wake people. I tossed and turned and suffered my back pain flaring up for a few hours before switching sides of the bed and popping in a DVD. I continued to feign consciousness a few times between 6 and finally 9 when I ultimately got up.

As is not unusual for Fridays, I headed down to the mall and hung out with Amanda for a while. It was her last week working at History mag, so now she needs to go find a career. Terrifying reminder of what I may have to look forward to in a few years. She engaged me in some discussion of how her ex-boyfriend, a religious type, tried to convince her of God's existence by using 2-D paper dolls as an example - we are to them as God is to us. Or something. I don't know, it was silly. Anyway, after this event they broke up and she eventually started seeing her current fiance.

Amanda and I didn't visit long. Usually these trips, set on days when I've had nothing to do, last for a while and end with her dragging me around as she shops and I make smartass remarks. Often, she tries to coax me into having lunch, but I don't tend to "do lunch," if ya know what I mean. Anyway, on that day, I actually had a doctor's appointment. Of course, Lady-Doctor Zamora ws on vacation, so I had to rush in and meet Man-Doctor Springle, who inquisited about the nature of my problem.

I hemmed and hawed and tried to answer his questions as he basically tried to get the rundown on what I'd already told Dr. Z. Eventually he concluded that he needed to see this shit himself. So I lay face down on a table and -- grrk! -- needled me in my damn cyst. Schllkkt! The most uncomfortable sensation of my life and a brief sample proves his hunch correct... the fucker was/is full of blood and pus, here's a bottle of pills, keep takin' em.

I also hung out with Chris and Pat some, to help them finish writing their play. It wasa a bitch tricky getting to the end but I think they finally got there.

My lack sadly has lacked excitement, however, here at the end of the summer. I don't expect I'll be living with wild abandon come september (you know what I mean) but I guess anything's possible.

It's a weird world, ladies and gentlemen, but I ain't got the stamina to bear it out.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

XIX: Redouble the image

It's hard to believe we're at the tail end of August and therefore summer. I know it seems like that's all anyone, particularly myself, can think of in days like these, but us schoolkids, we've got that on our minds.

But sadly August was, for the one and only Scotto, such a vacant lot of activity, a vacuum of interest... a total void. Whereas during July I went through many melodramatic moodswings and constant philosophical re-evaluations, August was primarily dedicated to... nothingness. Just a vast expanse of biding one's time. It doesn't feel like it's been that long since I chose my courses for the upcoming year, but the truth is, an entire month has passed.

After writing my last entry, I made a slight alteration to the settings of this b-logue. I re-added it to the listings. I had removed it, however long ago for whatever reason, I didn't want the wrong people finding my profile and therefore stumbling upon the expansive wealth of disturbing personal opinion I keep here... but then I decided, fuck it. I'm mature now. More or less. Not really. But I can account for most of what I say here, bullshit or not. Back in the day, I used to get the occasional random visitor who would drop an encouraging comment here or there. I'm conflicted as to whether I actually do like the idea of people reading these words, but I ought to let them stumble across it. In the slight event that I end up eventually someday saying something interesting or relevant, it'd be nice for those words to potentially get read.

It has been a comparatively eventful couple of days, starting yesterday when I woke up and headed out, as per occasionally-usual, for comics. My interest in comics has waned over the years. My conversations with Kris about thme used to be very in-depth but when we talked about them last weekend (or whenever) I just felt obligatory and totally uninterested. Part of it is that all my favourite comics were cancelled or the creators moved on or they ran their course, etc etc. Part of it is that constant crossover events have strained my concentration. Part of it is me, just me. You know. You know how it is. You get into something for a few years, then move on.

But anyway, I still do read a number of comics and I still write reviews at ComiXtreme and I still like the comics that I like, the few that remain anyhow. And, at least in summer, it gives me a destination every Wednesday morning when Comic Connection gets a new shipment. Well, not every Wednesday: I read so few comics these days that I find that I go a week or so without any reason to go. But I still love the walk, and as I have long documented, I like to make a whole thing about it. I get up, I walk down to Lakeshore, I get lunch, I go by the lake and chill out for a while until the store opens; then I use what remains of my leg strength after walking for a solid hour to get to the store and take a bus home. The important part is in the middle. It's by the lake where I feel at peace. Despite often being populated by unoccupied seniors, gawking families and seagull poop, the atmosphere down there feels fresh and real. As I approached, I noticed an odd sign with strange words and arrows. "BASE CAMP / TRUCKS / SET" Basecamp? Set? At the top of the sign was a logo that I suddenly recalled: that of CTV's series, Instant Star. By gum, my regular hangout - where just 2 years earlier I had shot a scene for my own little video project, Half-Past Eight PM - was currently setting the scene to an episode of Instant Star, a half-hour drama about the perils of young stardom... kind of a Canadian young female musician Entourage. Or not.

In reality, as glamorously as I've described it, what I basically saw was an assortment of teamsters and camera equipment, a catering truck, a few dozen orange pylons, and a literal busload of extras (meaning, I saw them getting off a schoolbus, where the word "school" was cleverly blacked out, lest anyone get confused that it's August.) I hung around a bit, didn't make contact with anyone, and got on my way when it became appropriate for me to do so.

After dinner, Dad, Eric and I went out to Toronto. Brandon was just arriving from Kingston by coach bus, after his stay in Montreal. The bus terminal was an odd scene... like a weirdy dingy corner of the city that fits every single imaginable description of a bus terminal. It was low-lit, with lots of exhausted-looking travellers, lousy tiled floors... I know it's a patently ordinary place, but you've got to enjoy things like this when they're unusual to you. You can't become numb to the subtleties of different settings.

Anyway, after the bus got in at about 8:30, we got home by 9. At 10 I headed out to play Risk with the guys. It was the first Risk game in weeks, and perhaps the first game played by all 4 of us all summer, despite my constant politicking, "Guys, when can we play Risk?" It isn't that I love playing Risk... the games themselves are always the same pattern as far as I'm concerned... but I like having the convenient excuse to get out of the house and hang out. And if there's one thing that was sorely missing this summer, by god it was that. Hell's bells.

The medium is the message; blogs aren't meant to stand longer than a few days. I wonder if I'll be hearing much about McLuhan this fall?

I got home around 2:30 and fell asleep. I woke up to a ringing phone. I don't know why I answered it - I have a policy that I don't get out of bed for phones. I value sleep that much. But whatever - it was a wrong number.

I accompanied Eric out to Sheridan to show him around and help him through the somewhat intimidating building as he tried to navigate getting his OSAP papers taken care of. We arrived at the OSAP office to find they wouldn't accept Eric's health card as photo id (confusing me as to how I never seemed to have a problem,) so he had to go get his Student Card. Well we got there - the SCAET building - and realized that he needed his student number, so we had to go all the way to get it off a public internet terminal, and when we came back the line for student cards was suddenly huuuge. So we ended up spending 40 minutes unnecessarily if only Eric had brought his student number to begin with.

Ultimately, we went grocery shopping with dad. There was a weird moment in the checkout line where dad was making small talk with the young mother (and her mother?) behind us. I know it's a parent's lot to embarrass his sons, but Eric feels mortification unlike many people, I could tell it was burning him. He has this hang up about dad making him feel too much like a kid in public.

I was embarrassed too, sure, but more awed at this reminder of how charismatic my dad can be. I've noticed it for years the way my dad will gladly make not-just-small talk but very friendly banter with any random stranger if they'll give him the time. He's very folksy, and when you're out in public with him, that can be weird.

I'm gonna call it a day on this one. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

XVIII: Pack it inside itself

My brain feels fried.

It's not even like I've been using it. I think that's the problem. All around me all I can do is watch the ongoing disintegration of western civilization, which celebrates its own entropy and glories in it. That's the freakin' point, ain't it? It seems like, how low can you go?

I feel like digging out those old Transmetropolitans my cousin sent me a few years ago, when I started Sheridan. For those not in the know, Transmet was a comic published some years ago by DC, (first Helix, then Vertigo upon that imprint's demise, although the existence of Helix was redundant when Vertigo already existed.) It was basically a comic book version of Hunter S. Thompson (in fictitious gonzo journalist Spider Jerusalem) set in a sort of post-dystopian cyber-future loaded with corruption and depravity. For whatever reason, I stopped reading it after issue 7, despite enjoying it a fair bit. I even cite myself as part-Jerusalem in the header crawl of this site (I haven't changed it since about then anyhow.)

It's a hostile world, man, certainly to me. Despite my capability with the internets and the fact that I grew up with PCs everywhere, in recent years I've become more and more a luddite. I'm not an activist about it or anything... I don't have an ounce of activism in me... but my personal philosophy is to involve technology in my life as little as I can manage. If I'm an example of anything, it's that the Internet is well populated by attention-seeking assholes who have nothing to offer you. But slowly and surely this site has evolved from "what did I eat for lunch and what girl do I like" to "why I think society is beyond redemption," which proves that, like it or not, I'm maturing. Also, I had a hot dog for lunch.

Give or take a dozen posts, I have 830 tiny little essays under my belt on this site. I could have been doing something productive with this time. Sadly, I'm not sure I had anything productive to offer. And I do it for myself. Shit man, I know nobody reads. Anybody who was reading probably got turned off years ago. The potential readership of this site consists generally of a smattering of curious friends and oddly enough a few people in Korea and Malaysia (hello out there!)

There ain't a great deal of a market for the insane self-involved ramblings of an evermore disgruntled would-be sorta journalist/writer/student. Not in mass media anyhow. Hence, people like me flock to the net to get our voices heard purely, without censorship and, as a consequence, without pay. That's fine, I can dig it all. If you're good, you make it. This somewhat deluded optimism has kept me going for years.

And so, until I do make it, I remain at work practising my words every night or so in this little field, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, look where my hand was; letting the days go by, let the water hold me down. It's the holy word of Guthrie - keep a journal. Write at least 20 minutes nightly. For better or worse, writers write, and if I'm not that then I'm not even sure I exist.

In the most awesome bit of news I may ever have heard, a band of teenage ninjas has been roaming neighbourhoods, getting up to no good, and leading cops on I-shit-you-not rooftop chases. I don't outlink very often, but check this out.

Half a world away, Greece burns.

Been on information overload. Like I said, brain's been fried, but you know what... I started this entry thinking I had nothing for tonight (even considering - gasp! - scrapping the whole damn thing.) And either this has been one of my most interesting entries in months, or I only think that it was interesting, and it is in fact a giant mess.

But that's about par for the course for this guy.

I think there are no idealists in Generation Y. I think we were born defeatists just trying to be real and make the best of the shitty world we've been handed. I don't preach except to say that you should treat your conscience right and live right.

Keep on rockin'
Scotto

XVII: What can one man know of the end of the world

I've got to get ahold of myself tonight. I dunno. Hey, I don't know myself and I don't know the world, I don't know nuffin'.

Week's gotten off to an exhausting start, in case it matters. Bureaucracy has so many imperceptible heads. I either fail to understand them, or look for those that are not there at all. It concerns my attempts to comprehend the oughtta-be simple procedure of deferring my OSAP payments. I feel like there should have been more to it than checking off a box and going on my merry way, dropping it in the mail. Fucking hell if I know. If I fucked it up, I'm fucked, because I put it off (hoping foolishly to use the time to try to understand) and if I understand it, then I'm annoyed with how simple it is that I even had to embark upon the enterprise and indulge these people in paperwork to begin with.

Whatever. I've got the money, alls I need is the paperwork. If there's one thing in the world I might always find to be beyond the meagre reaches of my comprehension, it'll be paperwork. This makes University registration particularly painful, and i'm sure I'm not alone. I have no patience for process, very little willingness to reduce myself to a little particle in the organism of a University. It's both deja vu and a new dread for me.

It's been an odd day, as I said, and not for any one particular reason. I'm annoyed, because my antibiotics are runnin' low and it's a whole damn production to get more. I'm concerned that this thing is gonna gain back some ground in the meanwhiles. The crickets seem to have moved on, on the plus side, and I'm sleeping a bit better. Those two may not be unrelated, but I've also cut off the senseless caffeine binges.

People been calling all day to see the spare room. We moved Manda's shit out of it and she hauled most of it away in someone's SUV, relinquishing what she couldn't take in the ditch across the way. None of us here seems to care for that move. Anyway, people've been looking at the room.

We ate late because Max had a vet's appointment and everything got juggled around, so food didn't come until about 8:00, which is totally unreasonable for me. The poor dog had an arthritic attack this weekend, and been hobbled. It's kind of a sad sight. I'm all over the place tonight; I already said, I gotta get ahold of myself, and I don't know.

So I was bringing back my plate to mom's kitchen as she'd been kind enough to cook, and all of a sudden there are these people there in the kitchen, a couple I guess and their daughter (I wanna say Sarah?) who will be doing some art program, I seem to have forgotten the details. They were latin. She looked a little punky in the good way, with the labret and red hair, and in I burst suddenly, caught by surprise, wearing my Clash T-shirt. Eric came behind me, also surprised to find we had visitors. He was introduced and his situation (starting school after "some time off") was explained to some "ahh, I sees," a reaction E later pondered. "What did that mean?"

I'm of two minds on the new boarder situation. Actually, I'm of four minds on it. Life is easier without a boarder to worry about, but it contributes to the income of the household. As for this possible boarder (I am going to catch hell for this if this girl moves in and finds this blog, improbable as that seems from this point) she was terribly good-looking which means that of course I'm drawn to wanting her around, but in the more logical sense, we haven't had a boarder yet to whom I could be attracted, and this would be an unprecedented form of awkwardness for yours truly. I have enough trouble with pretty girls outside my house.

Eric and I have been getting along pretty well okay these days; not that B being around ever had any effect, direct, obvious or otherwise, on how we got along. It might depress him to find how little his presence is missed.

I'm fighting the notion that this is the end of summer and oh no school's starting up again. I know that's true, but I'm trying not to care as much as one might conventionally. (Deja vu moment.) I know I'm starting a whole new thing and that the last 4 months of "freedom" have dwindled down to a few mere weeks, but I am only irked somewhat. Wasted opportunities? Sure, by and large. But life seems to keep going on. And if the past 4 months seemed to steal away in a hurry, then the next four are going to be a blur, plain and simple, I might think. Time always passes. I learned this while working until 2 AM at a bowling alley some years ago. As miserable a night as that was, I knew it would end, and have used it as my example ever since. We are never in stasis.

One thing I'm excited abut is not being around the house all day with CNN or Headline News or Star or whatever bullshit gets put on the TV. Eric's turned into a new junkie at the lowest point in the evolution of modern media. This is the nadir of journalism. As a consequence, we hear the same bullshit celebrity stories, zero-insight reiterations, stupid gossip, YouTube phenoms (the rambling beauty queen) other stupid crap. The worst offender is that Eric actually watches Inside Edition, which is setting back the entire culture of western civilization each and every night. Life's too short for Inside Edition, too short to watch Nancy Grace yell at people as they try to make valid points, too short to care about Lindsay Lohan's rehab. Thankfully my idle days are coming to an end, or else I'm likely to just -- snap!

Either we want the things that we want, or we just don't want to fight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

XVI: The entire world is waiting to hear

Crickets!!

Did you ever have that feeling... where you get really upset about something and you're ranting and raving and expending all sorts of energy, really worked up... and at the moment you feel like it's totally rational even as you sense you're maybe coming off as a bit bombastic... and then when the matter that had you so up in arms is resolved, virtually with the snap of a pair of fingers, you feel embarrassed and worn out from how emotional you got?

Maybe for better or worse, I had to feel something. For the past several days or weeks, I've felt like an emotional vacuum. At some point it dawned on me that I never really felt anything, and that as a writer when I'd try to reach down and get deep, it would seem, to me at least, more like a snarky imitation of life than a genuine reflection of someone's feelings. Maybe it's all the TV, all the rock n' roll, all the caffeine that has numbed me like that. Maybe it was Buddhism.

I've fancied myself some kind of Buddhist since about midway through high school. I had long earlier gotten to the point where I'd realized I didn't really believe in God. I'm not sure I ever really bought into it, and I'm someone who was positive about Santa Claus until at least Grade 3. I was beliefless for a few years until a chance internet search (don't even know what for) brought me to a website analyzing the beliefs and practises of various world religions, religioustolerance.org, which sought to enlighten and inform otherwise prejudiced individuals (that catch-22 being that no ill-informed and prejudiced individual would likely be surfing for such enlightenment.) That facts about Buddhism, the religion's outlook on life, has ever since been the only one that made any sense to me. I never took it on as a religion that I practised, however, after an incident where I was meditating and my brother walked in and thought it would be funny to kick me. That was very annoying.

Whatever the reason, I've not allowed myself to feel very much over the last little while, less and less as years have gone by. Not just expressing the feelings to other people, but to myself as well. And while I've explained stress and angst and anxiety and even occasionally happiness on this here web-logue, again, I'm more imitating them than experienceing them.

It was one of my most surreal moments of disappointment ever experienced... and I've been disappointed some in my 20 years, lemme tellya. This weekend as I noted earlier, I was set to be taking care of Xena, my grandma's dog. As much as I love my grandma, it's hard not to feel taken for granted with the dog gets dumped in my lap, and when the dog starts barking out her commands like nobody's business. She gets on my nerves, and then I get this twinge in my back...

I'm exactly the type of person to tie all his problems together and explode. I know, it ain't right, but when you're pissed, it's easier to make one monster than chase several.

Saturday was pretty nasty. eric and I went to hang out for lunch and on the way back, for the second time in the summer, we were caught in a flash rainstorm. With Brandon away, Rocky's getting, I dunno, really lonely, so he's meowing all melancholy and whatnot. Meanwhile, a bunch of crickets have decided to make a commune outside our house, and E and I were inside all night with the fershlugginer dog barking and bitching for nothing in particulars. It was driving me batty and I wasn't in the mood for no mo' of it this morning.

So I was waiting all day for my aunt to bring grandma over to pick the dog up. Around 6:30 we hadn't even had dinner yet but the dog was barking so of course had to take care of her. She goes on long walks. Eric had made a deal with mom that he had to vacuum the basement (she's friggin obsessed with that) and the time had come due, so while I was doing that, he took care of business. I got back to find that some of Xena's property, the remains of her food, had mysteriously moved. I shrugged it off but, upon getting downstairs, got a very disturbing call. Grandma and Karen had been by while I was out. They didn't know where I was, so they left. Eric didn't hear them, because he was vacuuming. The took the food, but couldn't be bothered to a) go into the basement to try finding Eric, or b) frigging wait for the dog they were supposed to be picking up! Augh! As soon as I hung up the phone, I collapsed, and then I exploded. Ka-boom. I was ranting and raving, huffing and puffing, pacing and freaking out. "How could they do this? how could they torture me like this??" I was expecing mom not to be back until late, so Xena would have to be here overnight, a disturbing thought considering how frustrated with her I already was, and she now had no food or anything that might appease her. I wanted to blow my brains out. A tad melodramatic, but I had hda enough, between cysts and back pain and crickets and bitches and meows, in the midst of all of it I just wanted to chuck it all.

So I lay down on my bed and released it all into the world, and as I was in the process of this, I heard the wheels pull up. Mom wasn't late at all.

The wheels and cogs of the universe work in strange ways. Max got injured while with Mom and Tim this weekend, and presumably because of this they opted not to dawdle home like usual. So the pain of one dog spared me having to brutally murder another. I greeted mom by telling her, "You have to take Xena home." And then finally we had dinner, although we're all still very worried about Max.

The end of summer is something of a reflective time. I find it difficult to believe how long it's been since I've been in a classroom... since March in fact, as April was dedicated entirely to the internship.

Judd Apatow, who is basically the savior of cinematic comedy these days (director of 40-Year-Old Virgin, producer of Superbad and approximately 13 upcoming movies over the next 2 years,) described College as "the reward for surviving high school. Most people have great fun stories from college and nightmare stories from high school." now, I've already been there, but I just discovered the quote and it's comforting to hear anyhow.

Currently enjoying the music of Steely Dan and Patti Smith's version of Gloria.

Determine to do a long-delayed Interneta update after this.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

XV: The Last You Heard

Tonight, a little angst about how little of a life I feel like I have.

I went out to see Superbad again. I haven't seen a movie in the theatres twice since... I'm going to say Godzilla. I don't even know why I saw it once, let alone twice, let alone both in theatres. It was a great movie, not just a good comedy but one that successfully creates a world and characters you want to revisit.

It's been a weird few days. Not eventful in any way, but frustratingly... augh.

I haven't been sleeping much lately. It could be all the caffeine coursing in my veins of late. I've gotten reckless. It's been a weird few nights. Many crickets. Lots of psychoses and neuroses. My brain has never been a very inviting place to be.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit that at least most of my thoughts lately had been about what life is going to be like in the fall. Life is virtually never how you imagine it, of course, but you can't help but speculate, because shit man, who knows how this is going to turn out.

I saw the movie with Chris, who'd already seen it, Connor, who'd already seen it, Pat, who was going for the first time, as well as Jasdeep and Cassie. Rather than stay out later and go to a house gathering with people I kinda know and am sorta friends with (Pat and Chris both had to work tomorrow and thus went straight home) I opted to go right home because I'm tired. A few days of stop-start sleep have gotten to me. I came home and ate Tostitos and watched South Park.

But what's really eating away at me? Well, when I woke up this morning and went downstairs, who should be lying on the kitchen floor but my Grandma's dog, ready for round two. Grandma went away for the weekend so the dog is only in my care for a few days, but it already feels like the bitch never left. She's very demanding, I'm not sure if I managed to impress that upon you dear readers the first time around.

Anyway, this is just the weekend. I should be able to survive, but by the end of night one I'm pulling my hair out, because Grandma never equips me with enough stuff to satisfy her, sa far as food goes, I've got half a tupperware of hard food and a can of soft; this is one hungry bitch.

But whatever man.

I'm just... trying to get along. To live on my own terms as best I can.

How terrible, I say, that I haven't posted an entry in what, three days now, and when I finally do, it's this? Almost nothing worth remembering, and very little of that worth typing up. Not to get too hard on myself here.

I remember the spring of 1998. I was in Grade 5 and we did this trip to the zoo and at some point, wlaking around all day in the sun with my friends at the time... a couple of guys and more importantly, a couple of girls. That was the day the switch got flipped and I realized what girls were about. The dynamic changed that day and I've been fumbling to recover it ever since, and that was nearly a decade ago. I know it's a weird thing to bring up, but the memory popped into my head, virtually that moment when that first rush of hormones were set free.

My brother Brando is going on a trip to Montreal. A business trip for his Casino business. I find it a little fascinating, because he hasn't spent that kind of time around the house in years.

I'm busted. Try to keep on rockin' for me
-Scotto

XIV: Get comfortable here.

Augh. Tonight feels like it's vanished. This is my night of utter lost-ness. I should know enough about words to have phrased that better, but you get me, right?

I'm frustrated because I'm sensing that I don't have a proper outlet for my current potential of creative energy. I've been kvetching about it for weeks now, my frustration at how hard it is to be funny on command and how I want to write something that makes somebody (me, for instance,) laugh. This was intensified when I saw Superbad.

Eric and I have been plotting out the next Sewerman series, but our focus for the most part hasn't been on making it funny, more on making it interesting. There's a difference.

God only knows, man. I'd like to go back and re-do Summer at Sixteen. I loved the characters, but I think that, looking back, it was way too dry, and I've expressed this many times. I wonder how Ana feels about that. She once told me she now knew what was wrong with it, although I don't suspect that was what she meant. She probably just had some structural bone to pick because she'd been in her first semester of Media arts.

I don't know. I don't know if I'm going to grow as a writer, or if I'm going to set myself into a downward spiral of frustration and doubt. I have a lot of things I could go on and write, ideas I wrote down years ago but am not interested in doing at the moment. I have a script that is more-or-less half-done.

I'm having one of those personal crises, you know, where I just got to keep typing. I'm burned out by too much nothing in my life.

Fuckin' hell.

It's tuesday night, August 21 at 11:02 PM, Diane and I am having yet another pointless fit of nonsense.

I need some direction.I write better when I have other things to think about, when the molecules have to churn faster. See NaNo, when my entire life was like a hurricane. Right now it's like a vacuum of outer space.

Augh!

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

XIII: Instead of anaesthetic, we only had warm milk

I said last night that I would probably still be annoyed enough to go back to that tangent. In a way, I am and I'm not. After all, I've slept on it and it's really not all that fascinating. Of course, fascinating the readers is the antithesis of what this blog is about anyway.

What happened was this. At the family gathering, some people were talking - and damned if I know or even care who it was, but they were my family members and my mom was among them - and somehow it came up (again, damned if I know how,) that I have some apparent negative personality traits. Now, everybody has their flaws, I know I ain't perfect, but this is about context. The word "arrogant" actually came up, and according to the consensus of my family, my brother Eric is comparably down-to-earth.

I have no idea what this means, although it certainly became the moment where I officially no longer care about impressing my family. I shouldn't take it so hard, but it's pretty effing annoying. I don't even know what to make of it, because I know I'm not myself when I'm around my family, I tend to act more... I don't know, family-friendly. I hate to admit this, but I'm not certain they know what I'm like. and I say this, only to add that I really don't know what I'm like, myself. What am I to the outside world? What am I to myself? Arrogant?

Fuck it - it does annoy me.

Three or so years ago, I was a twerp. I hated my life, I hated everything, I was miserable. I was uncentred, I had no idea what the world was like, I was a little bitch. A moody one, too. But over time I grew out of it to the point where I could walk confidently, with at least some semblance of self-assuredness, where I can function in society and attempt to have a life of my own. And maybe that image I project can be a bit cocky, but if I'm not, then I'm that self-loathing little git who knows he will never amount to anything and will never try. I have never forgotten the anguish I heaped on myself in those years and have done my best to walk tall past it. If they don't dig it? Fuck 'em! What do they know, man?

Besides, my mom tends to use words without being sure of the meaning. She used to say, "Oh, this person's real aggressive" or some such sentence, and to hear it, you'd know it didn't sound right. So adjectives are not my mother's strong suit.

It's a fucking miracle I never crumbled under the pressure at some point over the years. I could've been unremarkable. I could've been some anonymous kid doing, I dunno, business somewhere looking to secure himself a permanent residence in the middle of the road. But ever since I was in grade 3, people have been looking at me and expecting something big. Neither of my brothers had that kind of attention. Eric's a smart guy, but he spent about 4 years as a washout, so it was a pleasant surprise that he made it to 22 with his intelligence and wit intact, determined for once to get his shit together. Brandon made it through life fascinated by computers, and then graduated high school wanting to not even bother continuing with them, instead opting to get in on his connections and make money with resources rather than abilities. Good for him, too. Me, I should've crumbled years ago. I ain't as smart as I'm supposed to be, but I've made it this far on charm and ability and moxie and I'm still going further. But clearly, my family ain't into positively reinforcing me. And it hurts, because I know to some degree it's true, because it's either be that, or be nothing.

Worse yet. Any longtime reader and psychoanalyzer of these ramblings will note that I'm one paranoid sonofabitch. Many of my thoughts center on speculation of what other people might be thinking of me, fears that they ain't so flattering. And to discover that these sentiments are not only being thought, bt openly expressed, by your own damn family? That oughtta send me right off the deep end.

Maybe I'm blowing this right out of proportion, but you know, I don't know if I've ever felt appreciated, and I'm not just talkin' about home life here. Maybe when I did Half-Past, I came close. I had a moment where I could tell a huge group of people were glad for something I'd done, but I've not come close even once since and the pressure keeps mounting that I've got to do something big soon or else I'm back to feeling like the nothing I secretly suspect I am. Maybe that's my whole motivation for ever doing anything creative, is the desire for approval and accolade, as that's all I've got to offer. Then this had to happen and I had to string it along with all my pre-existing hang-ups.

I like my parents, I like my family. This is ridiculous.

A thought that applies to this but is meant to be taken as a much more broad statement: it's laughable whenever a parent bemoans an offspring's behaviour. This is your handiwork. As loose of a relationship as I ever had with my parents, particularly in recent years, I still can't think of anything that might have influenced me as much as them. They don't like how I turned out? They should'a done better. But I love 'em anyhow, because - for once in my life - I love myself, and fuck what anybody else thinks of that. Arrogant indeed.

I had this dream last night about zombie attacks. I was this guy; not myself, but fictional, yet in my life, the way a dream can create its own reality relative to the goings-on in your own brain.

It's been chilly. Brr.

Ever have an itch somewhere you couldn't satisfactorily scratch? I don't just mean a hard-to-reach place, I mean, like, on your heel or achilles tendon, where it just feels weird to scratch.

I've listened to Patti Smith's recording of Gloria more times in this past week than a human reasonably should. But it's cool and sure. (That sentence made no sense but felt right.)

More fascinating thoughts tomorrow. I've done way too damn much psychoanalysis tonight/ever. Idle thoughts - nothing interesting happened today, or ever. I just sat around with Eric and watched Amanda's Freaks and Geeks DVD set, which was a good show and worth checking out but maybe not worth the unruly price tag.

Keep on rockin'
-Williams

XII: Everything exists in relation to something else

So this evening I finally saw Superbad. I say "finally" because the story leading up to it is a long and tedious one with many tangents... which I will now spend the next hour or so typing up, for lack of anything better to do.

The coming of this film, Superbad, with its mid-August release, naturally heralded the last milestone of Summer, the last noteworthy event before we all must accept that the summer of 2007 will soon be in our rearview mirrors (wtf? when did I start talking like that?)

The plan, of course, was to see it on its night of release, the 17th, with the usual suspects. The Fergusons had been on their family trip to PEI, but I got a rather encouraging MSN message from Chris that it was my duty to see it without him (naturally did I later find out he had made plans to see it with his favourite Aunt anyhow. I've met the woman, she's a very nice lady.) So whatever trivialties occur put it off on Friday night. Truth be told, I don't even remember who was what and why, but eventually it came to, "I don't think we can tonight, how about tomorrow?" Granted.

Yesterday afternoon was spent in Palmerston. It was a pretty odd situation since our family doesn't usually gather on Saturdays, particularly not for no reason in the middle of summer. But dig the circumstances; cousin Kris had blown into town from his usual Windsor exile, so we had to take advantage. I ain't seen him since, I figure, November, and don't think I'll get an occasion to until, like November, since he's camped out in Windsor and kept busy with his job.

I don't know if it's like this for everyone, but I assume it is: you always feel the rift between yourself and out-of-town relatives. Palmerston is something of a nowheretown, one of those towns that literally consists of a mainstreet with its storefronts, a few housing neighbourhoods branching off, a gas station at one end, a Beer Store at the other, and scattered farmland all around. It used to have the railroad, but to see it it 'looks neglected for the better part of a century. so to grow up and live there is to be immersied in a culture very different from my own.

The bulk of the afternoon was spent catching up with Kris and attempting to reconcile the fact that while our lives have all changed in the last few years, we are all basically the same people we were in 2003 when he lived with us and went to Sheridan. We talk comics, wrestling, and whatever else. Milling around and distracting us from this legendary bliss are Mike, who probably misses his sparring rounds with Kris, and the kids, those that Kris inherited when he entered his present relationship, and to whom he essentially became "dad." I shudder.

I mentioned Mike. Mike is a cool guy, but like anyone, not without his quirks. He spent a great deal of his time, seemingly, goading Kris into fights over the years, and appears to miss that aspect as he came off a bit strong. I also tend to feel like I've lost my cool when he tries to get down to the nitty-gritty with me and my brothers, asking about girls and making jokes that I could enjoy if not told in front of my grandmother.

As for the kids. In a weird mathematical quirk, Kris became a parent of two, 10 and 8. The eight-year-old isn't worth mentioning and the 10-year-old was apparently pissed that I was, I don't know, hogging Kris. Nevermind that I grew up with him and now go most of a year without seeing him, she expressed her displeasure in a sarcastic way that 10-year-old girls have (in sitcoms more than in real life.) For my part, I just try to mess around with the kids by goofing on them in a way that I guess most adults wouldn't, or any mature person anyway. For most of my life when met with an unpleasant situation, my best defense has always been to joke my way out of it, to just blow the mind of the person I was dealing with. This is especially east to do with a 10-year-old and I took no sporting pleasure in it, but it's like a driveway pickup game. You don't play because it's difficult, you keep in practise.

Kris and I talked comics a good deal, although I lamented how out of them I'd been falling over the past years. Circle of life I suppose. I don't attribute it to "growing up," but would generally blame exhaustion at the marketplace's current obsession with overblown crossovers. We reminisced about how straight-talking I tend to be in my reviews, never afraid to let people know when a creator I like (Gail Simone, Peter David,) has let me down, whether they happen to be reading my words or not. Less occasion for that lately. Less of everything.

We also talked wrestling, and this was a big deal, as everybody with a radio or TV or a copy of the Toronto Sun knows what shit has gone down in the past few months in that sphere. He made a few uncomfortable remarks about Benoit. In a solitary moment between he and I, I related how terrible I felt that week, how betrayed I'd been and how I wanted to be able to put it from my brain. He generally agreed, making a rare cogent and eloquent point about how he'd let down every fan he ever had and the very business he'd claimed to love. My cousin has unjustly gotten a bad reputation as far as his thinking ability. The guy is very observant and on several occasions has expressed this with clarity that surpasses my own words.

We then played a round of Marvel Ultimate Alliance (I'd never played but it's not a hard game to get) and he lent me his Bone complete edition, as copies of the final installment are rare sumbitches and besides, Kershaw stole all my Bone comics years ago and I rarely entertain thoughts of getting them back.

I also spent a good deal of time talking to my aunts. They wanted to know about the cyst. I tried to play it off like no big deal but they were determined to know. Aunt Lori in particular wondered why I hadn't gone to the doctor sooner, and the truth is I had no good answer. Some naive part of me hoped it would be one of those things that goes away. Part of me hates making a fuss about things. Even in the doctor's office, I couldn't say, "Doctor, I appear to be suffering some peculiar growth on my spine and I fear it may be malignant. You would earn my undying gratitude if perchance you might allay my fears and set me on the course to proper health once more." Instead all I could do was hold the back of my shirt collar down and say, "Um, I got this thing." After three weeks of misery, this was.

There were also remarks and revelations made, none I was privy to but overheard later, that I could go into but would so completely derail this blog (if I was ever on track) that I can't even touch on them until tomorrow. I'll probably still be annoyed enough to remember.

After an early dinner, and the longest motherfucking goodbye in the history of human interaction, we set back off home and got home around 7ish. It then fell to me to try to get the evening on track. Expectedly for my propensity for getting people together, things fell apart from the get-go. It was the usual, "Such and such is working, so and so can't be found, and this other person doesn't have his car." So it was a rare trifecta of bummer, a rare cocktail to sink the ship of the evening. So I chilled with Eric watching DVD episodes of Freaks and Geeks, and then WWE's Saturday Night's Main Event.

With a very literal bitter taste in my mouth I crashed at 2 or whatever. Today I hit the bike circuit and happened upon a garage sale, a rarity in some respects. Most garage sales are on Saturday Mornings, but sunday ones are not unheard of. however, they also tend to get scuttled by the early afternoon, when the disgruntled sellers (having failed to unload a sufficient amount of their crap,) pack it in when I'm just getting up. This had those two factors going, plus the very special bonus that the bulk of the wares were action figures and other assorted junk that a mentally-adolescent lad like myself might be interested in buying. Most garage sales tend more toward knick-knacks, lousy outdated fashions, and vinyl records. Don't get me wrong, I like picking over people's old LPs. I don't have a turntable but it's fascinatingly telling abuot a person's history. But all too often, the toys at a garage sale are an afterthought. A few broken transformers, a paint-chipped bunch of ninja turtles... some happy meal toys, some G.I. Joes with a leg missing, Polly Pockets... whatever. This one was about right, with an impressive table lay out of many interesting and varied vintage figures. For $3.50, I walked away with a transforming Bebop (as in, "& Rocksteady," late of TMNT) and a really classic Green Goblin with pumpkin bomb tossing arm action.

Eventually, 5 or 6 rolls around and there's nothing in place. More work, more unavailable missing persons, et cetera and so forth. That shit was getting old. But by hook or by crook, I had vowed to Chrisbrown, (not in so many words,) Superbad was going to happen. One acquaintence was working and said that the 9:30 show even was not going to work. I learned this after leaving a potentially affrontive-sounding message on said person's machine. I hate leaving messages. Anyway; CB, having to go in to work at 4 tomorrow morning (?!!) for inventory, needed to catch the early show, so we rolled up to the encore a mere 8 minutes before the 7:00 showing.

And? Well it was awesome. What do you expect? My God. Hilarious. Essentially the perfect teen sex movie. All the setbacks were worth it, and despite my fears that my frustrated mood would put me out of the comedy state of mind, I was drawn back in by the time of the very first conversation in the movie.

Highly recommended. Interneta review probably tomorrow.

That brings a close to this lengthy and not particularly interesting roundabout recap of what my weekend was like and how I finally saw that movie. I've warned before that August is one of the worst months for the blog (I've knocked a mere 12 entries out in about 19 days. Lamesauce.) I have lived up to this warning.

Enjoy your remaining days, brothers and sisters.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott O'Williams

XI: Everything came from pieces of what came before.

I'm kind of a weird contradiction sometimes.

There's always going to be part of me that wants to just be fun and weird. And there's probably going to be that part of me that wants to critique society and be philosophical and make social commentary. It's possible to do both, and even more rewarding, but not easy.

I've mused on this before, and I can't seem to stop thinking about it (which it itself is quite unfunny.) If pressed, I could probably come up with some decent comedy writing but that never seems to be my natural style. I wanna be hip or romantic or philosophical or other bullshit. I never try to just go ahead and be funny. I've gotta be ironic and shit.

People tend to agree that my comics are funny, so good, I've got that. I don't always find them funny enough but that may just be a criticism of my own work, since I know how I think I know how I could've done better. I love the new Sensational 7 comic, but a lot of it is overly dry, if still quite funny.

But there's something rewarding about being able to manage the comedy in balance with other elements like action and adventure. Princess Bride comes to mind, a movie I'd rather watch than, say, Spinal Tap (same director, some crossover casting.) As far as comics go... and I'm not even sure I want to do comics very much in the future... Scott Pilgrim is the gold standard.

If I ever need to feel responsible for getting someone into something, I can easily just hand them a copy of Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life (first volume of the series.) I allowed it to sit by my computer once while I went off to do something and Mansoor began to thumb through it. Every couple of pages, an audible chuckle, or an empathetic "This is me."

Brian Lee O'Malley's Scott Pilgrim stories are at once an escapist adventure, a romance, and a hilarious work of comedy, in a world where a rock band can put an audience into a brief coma by playing "Last Song Kills the Audience," a delivery girl travels through subspace, veganism grants supernatural powers, and everything seems to have been named after some video game or another.

Pilgrim, a 20-something Toronto dude plays in a band and longs to date Ramona... he does, but will be permitted to continue after he defeats her league of Evil Ex-Boyfriends (should he lose, is he destined to become one?) Anytime he does, the boyfriend disappears and, plink, coins magically appear. "Aw man," he whines after his first battle, "This isn't even enough for the subway."

I'd like to do something as honest as that, as funny or as interesting - if I'm lucky, all three. I'm not sure I have it in me; it would take a lot of focus not to just sarcasm it all up.

And it's worth noting that, with an exponential amount of sitcom convention replacing the pop-adventure aspect, you've got "How I Met Your Mother," that excellent show every monday evening. Sweet, romantic, sharply funny and great story to boot.

To remedy my occasional comedic deficiency, I bought the season 1 DVD of Stella, a hilarious ad still-somehow-unknown Comedy Central property described on the back as "Marx Bros on acid." So it is.

I was at the mall today with Amanda, per usual for a friday. Today was a weird one for me. Mysterious forces awoke me around 6 AM and took me to that rolling-over-can't-get-back place of tiredness. Aw shit, I groaned around 6:30. "It's not happening." Up I got for the first time since my last trip to Toronto, over a month ago. I'd been wondering when I would "have" to get up early again. It used to happen a lot more, back around grade 12. I'm not sure how I feel about it, because I love the mornings, I do - the fresh air can be really invigorating - but I hate getting up in the morning.

So anyway, we hung out, she did some shopping, I cracked wise. I had a gift card for the Bay and attempted to buy a new wallet. It became an amazing ordeal, really, because first the barcode wouldn't scan. Then she - the cashier - fouled up the gift card process and had to get a manager to void it. Oh man, I've been there. Then, HMV and Stella, followed by the return to the food court.

At the beginning of the day, Amanda had told me of a wedding she'd been to (with her fiance and a friend of theirs,) where the Reverend, apparently a soundalike of Bobcat Goldthwaite, went off into a surrealistic monologue about a play he wishes he had written, about a man and a woman, their baggage (metaphorically represented by actual baggage) which is lightened by - you guessed it, Jesus. I used this to make my point for why I intend on a Justice of Peace or Elvis/Vegas-style wedding. She went on to recount the mortifying details of one of her previous trysts, a fella who has been left in a dry spell ever since they brief affair several years ago before falling into the friend zone (this happened apparently mere moments before she met her eventual fiance.) I tugged my collar and said I hadn't exactly been on a winning streak these past few years and she told me not to worry. They always do, don't they... and while I appreciate reassuring platitudes, what does it really do to get me some? There are plenty of girls out there for you, they just happen to be in the Witness Protection Program.

Eventually this led to a bizarre discussion on the legal age of consent. It's important to know what that age is... believe me, from watching recent episodes of Inside Edition and Nancy Grace (why the fuck would I do that? Well I don't control the remote,) I can't stress enough how important it is to know the age of consent and to, for God's sake, abide by it.

How much outrage is there, in the world, for God's sake? When do you just get tired of being appalled and broadcasting it? Is that what people like to see? I think Ms. Grace and by and large the cable news ilk has oversaturated the market with that commodity.

See? Can't not be socially conscious these days.

The last few milestones of summer are winding down. I'm still going to live my life loosely on my own terms come fall. But as we already know, Summer 2007 will already have gone down as consummately lame... abandonment, uncertainty, fear, nausea, frustration, and a cyst, now in remission. Those are the souvenirs I keep with me from this summer.

Oh, and my delightful bag of rocks. I can't believe how long ago that was. That was a good weekend or so. I can't believe, however, even moreso, that my brothers were actually considering attempting to take me to a titty bar after the UWA show all those months back, especially given that we were all tired and broke and it was nearly the last train back to Oakville. Trains. I'm going to become quite familiar with 'em.

This post has taken some odd turns, but the good ones always do. The bad ones drill on uselessly, impotently. Or maybe they all suck for their own reasons? I can't say for sure I only write 'em. Whomever reads 'em, now...

The world is so big and I am only me.

Keep on rockin'
-Williams, Scotto

X: It had to come from somewhere

Somedays it's too much to bear.

Okay, melodramatic? Totally. I've been reading this book ostensibly about the Simpsons but also drawn along the thread of zeitgeist, counterculture, social revolution, etc etc, very high-minded stuff that incorporates, you know, the grunge revolutions, indy filmmaking movements and causes célèbres of the 90's, all the things that were cropping up around the time the Simpsons hit its stride (circa '91-96, and then leaping back and forth between that and 9/11 etc.)

It's actually quite a bit to drink in. I wouldn't say I'm learning anything, but it's giving me a great deal to contemplate. I'm being reminded of the otherwise-rare soft touch employed by Simpsons writers (especially in the early years) as it comes to satire and social criticism. Rarely heavy-handed (compare to the rather embarassing 18th season finale,) and always pointed. It's kind of helped rekindle my appreciation for the show, coupled with the recent movie (could it really have been as awesome as I felt it was? I'll have to see it again someday to make sure.)

More new anxiety about creation, about what I'm capable of and whether anyone will ever give a shit. I'm sure they will if I make it good enough. I have this weird theory that is proven wrong time and again that quality wins in the end. I don't know why that belief hasn't been beat out of me by the cancellations of shows like Clone High and Arrested Development... but it's still a safer bet than a shitty project. Who knows.

I have given some thought to putting together an e-zine of some kind someday. Not a PDF-style zine, but a website with magazine content. I would want it to be something that does not suck - that would be its primary function. To exist and not suck. It's one of those projects I might get really interested in and then abandon real quick, so I'll have to take my time and meditate on it. Like, for a few years.

Fortunately, as a former journalism guy, I'm blessed with a deep cadre of friends and allies who would be up for such an endeavour. If given the directive "Give me 500-1000 words that don't suck," I'm sure most of them could produce.

I got a head full of ideas that are drivin' me insane.

Restless. Bleh.

I have more on my mind, but nothing I can express for now. So keep on rockin'
-Scott

IX: Got to be good lookin' 'cause he's so hard to see

I wouldn't wish my boredom for tonight upon my worst enemy.

I went out tonight, to contemplate existence, the universal loneliness and longing that grips us all, and of course, coffee. I mean, I was thinking of a sermon on how boredom is so relatable and natural, but... it's also very boring. So I turned back and gave a smirk to the pretty girls who came up behind me at the crosswalk. Well hello, ladies.

I can be very critical of my writing. I know when something is shitty and there are things that simply will not be shown to others. But then there are times when I feel like it all comes together perfectly. Such is the case with The Fire, a story I am about to upload to Interneta, the latest chapter/story in my Curiosities collection. I think it represents a step forward for me in terms of my ability to craft a story and put forth an idea simply. Maybe. The person I've showed it to (as per usual, I send my good stuff to an aunt,) seemed very impressed. The other two I've uploaded I'm not so crazy about, but they're not getting any better I think, unless I totally redo them a process of which they ain't worthy. There are also a couple that I like in principle but need to re-do to get that proper effect, the very same that I hit with this one.

Girls. Sometimes, I feel like females are some completely mysterious species that I happen to share a planet with; they represent something I can never understand. I want to say that they are a mystery I will never be able to penetrate, but I think I'm above such a vulgar pun.

Plus, I'm not so down on myself right now. Then again, I'm not down o a girl, either.

Well, I guess I'm not above awful vulgar puns this evening. Surprises all around.

I'm getting a shitload more spam lately, at least, trickles of bits that manage to squirm through the bulk filter. No kiddin', man. And it's not like when I kept getting that Excite bullshit and I could block the sender (although it must've been either Amanda or Jess who ended up doing that for me after all my ferkakte complaints.) These all come from different senders.

I go out every morning, more often than not for coffee. I do this because when I come back, I can say I've been somewhere, I've done something for the day, and can feel comfortable sitting around at least for a while. But after a certain point (I've long, long, long since passed it months ago) this becomes routine and isn't even worth noting. Just a habit you depend on. If I don't get coffee, I spend the whole day wondering why or if I should have. Like an addict, I suppose. I don't claim I could "quit anytime," mind you, so I'm not in denial, but I'm not exactly seeking help. I do believe I could "quit eventually" if I saw some reason to, but basically it's my only reason for getting up in the morning, as I'll often state.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention: the fourth relationship in the chain busted up. It was two days later by now, but it's soon enough, and it was long-lasting enough, that it counts. Hell, the guy in this one is best friends with one of the previous break-up guys. Go figure. I'm expecting one more by the end of the week, though I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't come up. I still know enough people who are in relationships that it wouldn't at all be surprising, but the odds of 5 in so many days seem staggering. I'm way too fascinated by this. I need something new to occupy my time. Writing clearly isn't doing it.

Christ, we're really flying through August now, aren't we? I'm disgruntled by the length of time since the last time I played Guitar Hero. That game is freaking addictive. I'm going to have to get it (and thus, I suppose, annoy the piss out of my brother.)

I've been doing a little schedule-juggling lately for my classes. As it stands, I stand to get 5 1/2 credits this year, (an even six if I opt for AST201H1S next semester.) I think I'm going to whittle it down by one by dropping the world religion class that would take me to about 8:00 on Thursdays. I managed to snag a seminar class, one that came with Alyssa's recommendation. I'm not sure if I'll get the same high off it as she did, (it's on poetry) but I love the idea of being in a seminar and there was only one slot left. I wasn't aversed to it, and it fit my schedule, so in I went gladly.

I love Abbey Road. A look at mjy most-listened songs will show you I've listened to it in its entirety more than Sgt. Pepper, yet the last Bealtes album ever recorded is often slighted by history. Who knows why. I don't even understand the appeal of the White Album, by comparison. It has good songs, but it's not really coherent, but there's something really determined about Abbey Road. If/when I re-do my albums rant, you bet that Abbey Road is getting a good chunk of attention.

Boredom sufficiently abated for tonight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto bin Williams

VIII: The unfortunate feeling of coming down

This entry's title from some remark my brother made about his history of excess.

Ah. Welcome to the working week. Not that I work, but I do like Elvis Costello. It was actually kind of a busy day for myself as I had my follow-up visit with the Doc as well as a few other meagre errands to run.

Yesterday, I erased my debts to the library. At the beginning of summer I had kept two graphic novels out way too long and accumulated about $5.50 in fines. This is hardly the most atrocious debt I've ever heard of mind you... my friend Josh once beamed at his $90-plus bill for keeping a book on Bill Clinton basically forever. But it's enough that if I went in there, I'd be like, "I don't wanna pay."

On a lark, I paid off finally so I could take home their copy of 1,001 albums you must hear before you die. I started thumbing through it in the library, but naturally, a book of that scope is, er, fuckin' huge. so I had to bring it home. It's a good read, with some good observations on the most popular and lauded albums of all time, as well as some obscurities and underrated classics. I think I've mentioned it before in this blog (it contains every single album Dexys Midnight Runners ever recorded, which indicates they were really seriously scouring.) I also picked up a book on the Simpsons, because ever since the movie I've been on a kick for classic simpsons goodness. Plus, it reminded me, ironically, of a one-off gag from an episode, where the library hangs a banner proclaiming proudly: "We have books about TV!"

So I saw the doctor and she took a look at my cyst. That's a sentence I certainly never thought I'd be typing at 20 years old. Apparently the pills are taking efect and, if things work out, I won't have to visit E.R. Which is a shame, really, because I'd love to meet Maura Tierney *(warning: stupid joke alert. The previous sentence was not to be read by people seeking comedic gratification.)

I think I'm going to tie this one off quick. It's not been an interested few days - unsurprisingly - and I'm feeling tired. So much for, you know, pathos and attempts at something they might call humour. Comedy is nebulose, man, I don't know what's funny and any time I've ever been funny in my life, that's luck, because I'm the least dependably funny person I can think of. You can see it in my writing, man. I can be droll, but I have a hard time with the funny stuff, which is ultimately the most rewarding stuff to write. I remember being in improv and getting huge laughs from the audience for saying the stupidest things, and afterward I would have to keep saying, "I can't believe they laughed at that!" And then there was my startlingly awkward turn as a talk show host in grade 10 commtech. I guess I was the right guy for the job, but that doesn't mean it wasn't painful for all involved.

I don't believe I'm not funny, or that I can't be funny when call upon, just that I'm inconsistent. I made a joke to Eric that before writing the next Sewerman issues, we should sit down each time and watch Ingmar Bergman's the Seveth Seal for inspiration.

Sometimes, humour is observing the obvious, and sometimes it's trading that for the unexpectedly appropriate. It's hard to put into words. I still get chills recalling my panicked reaction wshen asked years ago by a younger schoolmate "what is comedy" or how to be funny. Shit man, you can't teach it. You become it. It's a self discipline, and either you're good or get better, or you suck and get worse. Or you're just like me, and you keep trying and sometimes hit.

It's got to be natural, though. Even awkwardness like Woody Allen's routines are just natural. You can't laboyr over that. It has to simply be.

(That's why awkward, forced, stilted comedy shows often found on Canadian TV, not naming names, seem so unappealing to me. They always seem to just reach too far for it, too hard.)

I had no idea I was going to write about this. I suppose it was better than writing about nothing, if you like more words instead of less. Me, I could've gone either way, but as always, it beats writing about my actual life.

Keep on rockin'
Commander Williams

VII: She's a woman, and she's terrifying

Today was a totally uninteresting day. Not noteworthy whatsoever for yours truly. It was just the latest in a growing collection of do-nothing saturdays that has amassed thus far this summer, much to my annoyance.

Two weeks - saturdays - in a row I did something, and I suppose a third would've been too much to hope for.

But it was a gorgeous night and Eric went out for a drink, leaving em to my own devices. I took the opportunity, oddly enough, not to chill out, but to break my shackles a little and go night-riding. This did not involve dressing like David Hasselhoff, but rather just getting on my bike and going for a ride in the dead of night. Though far from an extreme sport, it has an appeal in that it's different and the atmosphere is amazing... the chilly air, the mysterious shadows...

I had myself a bit of a pity party, I'll admit. Them ole feelins o' abandonment been croppin' up again mama. Like I ain't got a friend, nobody to talk to, and this is true. how much value I place on it is my business, but it is my understandin' that man is a social beast and will habitually look for comfort in the company of others, y'dig?

But no, I was alone for most of the night. It was around 11:30, after I got back from the night-ride but before Eric returne dthat I noticed something, courtesy of facebook. Earlier today, a friend of mine went from being listed in a relationship to being single. At this later time, a second friend did. I haven't seen anybody's relationship status change in months. It got me thinking.

In the movie Dog Park, an affable late-90's romantic comedy starring Luke Wilson and Natasha Henstridge. It's worth a rental if you can find it and you've got a girl to sit next to you while you watch it. Anyway, in the movie, a supporting character proposes a thoery about the "relationship chain." When one relationships ends, it causes several others to end as a chain reaction, until people start reconstituting into couples. These two friends of mine didn't know each other. I'm not sure if the theory is a universal thing or if they are supposed to be connected by knowable forces (as opposed to the great unknowables that define coincidences of this nature.)

But then a few moments ago, and I wasn't even going to write an entry until I spotted this, yet another couple had broken up. This couple, as far as I'd been aware, was mad about each other, but it's not as though I was close enough. whatever. People break up. Sometimes, apparently, three in a day. I know plenty of people in relationships. In fact, sometimes it feels like that's all the people I know (of course, it ain't.) It was just a weird coincidence that happened to remind me of a thing I saw in a movie once.

Y'know, I keep feeling like I'm waiting for something inside me to develop. Like I've got something to offer and maybe it's not a play or a movie or a comic or a book... maybe it's not poetry or prose. I don't know what it is or what it might be. But I'm compelled to keep trying to find it until I know what it is.

And sometimes, I feel like I don't see the world properly, like my perception is just shifted a little bit from other peoples' vantage. Like maybe I just don't understand or perceive the way people naturally do. Maybe I look so deep I miss the obvious. Maybe my memory is nothing. Maybe my recollections are fabricated and my instincts are arbitrary. Maybe I'm incapable of communicating because my brain can't tap into the natural human wavelength. Maybe I'm super-capable of communicating because I'm on a different one. Maybe I'm full of shit. Who the hell knows? Maybe I haven't been with a girl -- really with one -- in three years because I overthink shit like this. Maybe I'm not as deep as I appear, or maybe I'm deeper than I realize. Maybe I come off as too sophisticated. Maybe I feel half-baked. Incomplete.

Am I what people think of me? Am I what I think of myself? Which is more valid? Does it matter? Can they contradict and still be true? Should I be true to the self that I hate, or the image I don't understand? Am I even capable of being real and honest with someone, or is it just a game, one I'm not even certain I'm playing properly?

What is this thing inside me that wants to be created? (I freaking hope it doesn't turn out to be a person. That is not happening anytime soon.) I'm a restless soul and boy does that grow more and more.

Nobody seems to understand what my future holds, least of all me. Anytime I talk to anyone about what I'm doing - and this has happened a handful, maybe half-dozen times over the summer - they'll offer their suggestions and insights based on what they believe to be my intended destination. I don't really have an intended destination. I do everything I want, I try to do it well, to get good, and I hope someday to be successful at some of it. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. But it's not important. All that matters is that I'm on my way there, somewhere, I have to because it's all I've got, whatever it is (unknown.) Do you see what I mean about the confusion? I know I'm getting there, but I still don't know where it is. But it seems to be the same course plotted out for me since I was very young. I don't know where it leads, nobody can tell me, but it keeps going and it's where I am.

I'm where I belong.

That's not a bad feeling, but being there and being lonely, that is.

Maybe reach out for me, sometime. Won't you think of me once in a while?

This has been amazingly therapeutic. SWP is such a great place to get shit like this off my chest every now and again.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

VI: How's Annie?

It's been a weird day. Warning... it contains gross medical terms.

Yesterday, I tied off a few loose ends from my recent matters. One was that I wrote... a lot. I was finding it difficult to express what I was trying to, but you don't beat that by crying about it. That shit, you get through by writing anyhow, letting the block on your creative abilities gradually erode. Then you go back and clip the deadwood (or, if you're me during NaNoWriMo, you let it stand.) I also polished off a story, part of my Collection of Curiosities, that had been left dangling for months. I didn't realize how creatively barren I've been all this time. It's come out in trickles, like the rain. When I last did the serious writing, (beginning that particular story,) it had just rained that morning. It rained yesterday, somehow giving me the wherewithal to get shit done. And done I got shit.

The other thing was that I finally decided to get a doctor's appointment. It was getting ridiculous and not looking like anything was going to happen, after more than two weeks. Mom hadn't been aware. I suppose I hadn't been obvious about it; it's not something people would notice if I didn't point them to it, I guess.

So I wake up this morning to the sound of a phone. My policy is that I don't get out of bed for phone calls. I just can't be bothered, we get so many bullshit telemarketer calls these days. But after a set amount of rings, the call started again. That's mom's style. Finally I went and muttered something that sounded like it may very well have been "Hello?"

"Scott, hi, you've got a doctor's appointment at 9:40 today."

"Um, what?"

It was about 9:08. Naturally, I was very pissed off at the suddenness of this. I didn't want to go to the doctor right damn now, I wanted to sleep. I asked mom, "It has to be now? It couldn't have been monday or something later?"

Her more-than-somewhat rude response? "Um no, you're going." I still can't believe she said that. What a thing to say! If I didn't want to, I probably wouldn't have gone, because I didn't much care for that circumstance.

However annoyed I was, however, I knew I had to get this done and it was as good a time as any. So I showered off and, by 9:30, headed off on my bike to make the doctor's appointment. Why my bike? A few reasons I suppose: It was a gorgeous morning. I've been cycling more lately. Oh yeah, and I had ten minutes before my appointment, the doctor is at least a 20-30 minute walk, and I like punctuality. So biking felt like a good idea.

Mind you, punctuality doesn't mean shit to doctors. My mom's insistent tone rang in my ears bitterly as my physician walked in with her files at about 10 or 20 after 10. For this, I rolled my ass outta bed?

Friday mornings, I usually meet up with Amanda. She has fridays off from her day job, and is basically the only Sheridan person left in Oakville, at least as I have contact with. We hang at Oakville place, get coffee, make chit chat... she usually shops and I tag along and do prop comedy routines to keep myself amused. I had told her I'd be there the night before, naturally unaware I was going to be at the doctor. I sat and waited impatiently. I hate being late.

She asks me how I'm doing, what brings me in today. I tell her I'm getting worried about "this thing on my neck." She takes a look and reacts pensively.

"It looks like a cyst." Fuck! What does that mean? "And it looks infected." She asks me various questions and I give her my answers, and she acts like there was something I could have done. It kinda felt like she was thinking, "You fucking medical layman, why are you such an idiot?" A bit judgmental. I don't know.

Bottom line, she gets me a prescription for some antibiotic and insists that she's going to have to see me again on Monday and that we may have to do a procedure to get this shit drained. Motherfucker. Just what I need. A fucking procedure. That would really make my summer. "What did you do this summer?" "Oh, I had an infected cyst drained of pus. It was a blast."

I'm not really sure why she wanted to see me on Monday, either. Any improvements I'm going to make are probably not going to happen over the weekend. But whatever. I play by her rules, because she's the doc, and I'm just some fuckin' layman. She closes by noting that she hadn't seen me in a while. This is true. The last doctor's appointment I had had been in 2005, and it was more of a meeting to get confirmation of my shots. It was actually a bit of a waste of my time and hers. At that time, she told me I should probably get a physical soon. And well, that just never happened.

So I ran down to the pharmacy and got my shit handled. They were timely enough about that, so I booked it on down to the mall, wondering if, at about 11:05, I could feasibly still get some hanging out done.

I did eventually catch her, after a brief back-and-forth around the mall. Actually in getting there and looking for the bike racks, I very suddenly hit the curb - from a near-still drifting position, and landed on my ass. I can be pretty friggin' absent-minded sometimes.

I caught up with another ole friend recently. She seemed very enthusiastic about my going to U of T, not surprisingly, because that's where she goes. I'm glad about this, and her interest mde me feel, well, like a good friend who hasn't seen her in many months.

This ain't an existential moment. It's just being. And me, I'm being tired right about now.

I spent a lot of yesterday, despite the conspicuously lousy weather, down by the lake. It was quite a scene, as the grey clouds gathered and the waves lapped up on the shore. I had come down to the area to get comics and stopped off just to see how bad it was. It was amazing, with the wind howling and everything. I thought I was gonna catch death of cold, but I appear to be fine. Go fig.

I was grocery shopping the other day. I have a box of Golden Grahams and deicded to replenish my milk supply for it. Then I noticed that the litre of milk I got had the same expiry date as the one I was already on. Blast! I now have 3 days to finish more than a litre of milk before it goes rancid. I don't even really drink milk (I prefer to destroy my teeth rather than reinforce them.) but I just had a big heaping glass. I feel kinda gross.

It's not places, nor times we become nostalgic for, but feelings. All we are trying to do is recapture them, through wherever we were or what we were doing when we felt that way.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

V: The burdon of existence is a hard one to shoulder

Guh. What a cumbersome night.

You know... I like to write at night. I like to unwind and muster up my creative abilities and let it fly between, say, 8 PM and 1 AM. But then there's TV, oftentimes between 8 and 10, and usually the Daily Show and Colbert at 11-12... and then it gets past midnight and I ain't written shit! By then I'm thinking, "Okay, let's pop off a blog and maybe go to bed." So here we are.

Last friday, I was at the mall hanging out with Amanda J. on her day off, and my grandma saw me. I didn't see her, although she seems to have gotten the belief that I looked straight at her. So I hear this not only from my mom, but when my aunt called this morning to ask if I had my mom's work number, she said, "I heard from [grandma] that she saw you at the mall and you didn't say hi!" It's weird how this inner-family chatter goes around. I'm actually going to have to have a conversation with my grandmother to explain that I didn't see her, and turn it around and go, "Why didn't you say hi to me?"

Grandparents hold a unique place in families. They get things re-arranged for them, and perhaps rightly so, as they are directly or indirectly responsible for most of a family's existence. Sometimes this is to the benefit of those involved. My grandad (Dad's dad, whereas the previous grandparent was mom's mom,) is going to be in Australia from late September through mid-October, and thus won't be around for Thanksgiving. Traditionally on Thanksgiving, dad takes us up to North Bay to see him, and uncle Alan's family. Because of this sequence of circumstances, Dad suggested (that is to say, decided,) we go up for Grandad's birthday in late September and skip thanksgiving. I was glad to hear this, because thanksgiving is a great time to stick around town when you are in University (who knows this year, but for the past two absolutely,) and it also means less time we have to spend in North Bay, which although populated by very nice people, is a dreary town to be in, especially in chilly mid-fall weather.

I almost started a fire today. I had the baking sheet (with stale last night's fries) on the stove and turned on the burner by mistake. I didn't realize until the smoke started to billow. On the plus side, strangely enough, the heat seems to have seared off or at least cracked some of the char caked onto that sheet.

I'm beset upon by minutiae. Dad would be upset/disappointed to learn that I can't find my birth certificate. There's other shit that needs to be found. Mom wants to replace our table... the table, which we don't eat at but serves as a piling ground for a load of junk, came with the basement, is filthy and plastic... not an item of furniture I would personally pick but hey, it was free.

I think I need to get Guitar Hero.

My brother puts away dishes in a way that annoys the piss outta me.

So much minor shit. All of it, nonsense, humbug, bullshit. I need to just write something that is real. Or at least go to bed.

Aug. Not a classic.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

IV: Everlovin' blue eyes

Nothing like a good summer rain.

It's pretty nutty, in that cool way. It felt like the entire month of July was deprived of rain... we were always on the verge of a rainstorm and then it would suddenly blow over. There was one flash storm that affected Toronto, and it spat a little the day we went to Niagara Falls, but it was mostly in a state of drought.

Today, it's rained virtually all day. I went out for coffee and you could feel it in the air... that sort of prickling humidity, that overcast shadow that lets you know. It rained mid-morning, but looked to be clearing up in the early afternoon, so again I set out on my bike in search of recreation (Scott gets physical, who knew?) It was a weirdly good admosphere, with all the pavement damp and the wind a breeze... I dug that, man. I was on the way home when it started to pick up again, but didn't pay it no mind. I mean, I've been caught in worse, vividly recalling the time I was on my way home from an ill-attended housewarming party just in time to get caught in a massive thunderstorm. That was a blast. Anyway, this was just a little light drizzle, barely worth the attention.

I think it's less important to know things about someone than to simply... know them. You don't really get to know someone in any really important way by asking where they go to school and what they like to do. If you converse, find common ground, express opinions and attitudes about certain subjects, it gives you much stronger tools to build any type of relationship, romantic or other. I realized this after reviewing an old friend's profile and realizing that, if pressed, I would have no clue what her favourite movies and TV shows were, but I know her attitudes and habits pretty well, as far as who she is as a person. Food for thought, anyhow.

I have important things to do. Well, important as in they should be priorities over this stuff, but not that they are absolutely particularly pressing. OSAP is straightened out and just needs to be wrapped up nicely. I have a review yet to do. But you know me. 800+ posts says I love this thing, for whatever reason.

I updated Interneta with af ew reviews last night, nothing major. A friend of mine put a Facebook album to good use a while back by listing the top 20 albums he owns. It was a very good list. I don't personally own that many albums, and more than 50% of those I do are Aerosmith. I did a similar article for Interneta and I'm considering revising it, rearranging and dropping a few, and creating a sidebar about great compilations (at least one of which already resides in the outdated list.)

You know how it is.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

III: Who's to say how you heard my voice?

A little groggy this evening from excessive chicken. It's been a weird few days.

We haven't had enough food around here, with a few extra meals being dumped on us and our ill foresight kept us from coping. Weirdly enough, mom hasn't been cooking for us lately, so we have to account for an extra meal, and dad was away all week, so there went wednesday. So we actually didn't have any food for tonight, given we hadn't defrosted the steaks. Mom got home from her camping trip and had to run a very special errand, and agreed, quite apparently reluctantly, to pick up a bucket of KFC.

Sometimes, you get KFC, and it's like, really good, gourmet almost, quality food... and then oftentimes, it's just sloppy, greasy, nasty poultry.

The errand she was running is a sort of unusual one, least of all for a landlady. I haven't really talked aobut this, but it's been one of the more serious issues around here lately. Sometime toward the beginning of summer, this girl moved into the room. It was one of those situations we got in the middle of accidentally, where Eric had a friend who knew we had a room to rent, and this friend had a friend who needed a room. Mom was eager to let this happen, as she would not be getting any income from a vacant room. Eric expressed a great deal of worry that this thing wouldn't work out and he'd have to be the guy who brought it together; sort of a mixing friendship and money type thing. I was skeptical to begin with, but when mom consented, I just figured, "Oh whatever, it'll be fine." The girl was promising to pay $100 per week. That was what I was skeptical about, and with good reason.

This young lady was a bit younger than me and not out of high school. She "couldn't live with her mother," despite claiming to have a close relationship. That all depends on how you look at things. I'm on very good terms with my mom, perhaps the best I've ever been as she finally sees me as a mature, trustworthy, responsible individual. But we don't talk very much, as per the living arrangements not forcing us to see each other that much. Th egirl and her mother apparently talk like friends, but when it comes to being a family... well, from what I understand, the relationship is a bit harried. If that's a word. I repeatedly heard how she "couldn't live with her mother." Whatever that means. I certainly don't blame the girl, but what kind of a woman can't get along with her own child to the point where they can't even live under the same roof?

Eric theorized, and I agree, that while most people do move out at about 18, it's with a sort of training wheels system... you live in Res, or in any case are on student loans and don't really have to work to support yourself and go to school and live your life. You don't just get tossed out there and expect to fly like a bird, you know? And parents have to impart that shit on their kids, those tools. So right off the bat, we've got major dysfunction. And the poor girl, apparently, she's never held a job more than 2 weeks. Shit dude, even I've got a better employment record than that! But whatever. In theory she could have possible lived her life onward, but anyways didn't. She didn't turn in more than one rent check, apparently, and as the weeks dragged on the more hopeless the situation came to appear. Mom constantly bemoaned how she had to get this girl out of the house after more than a month with no rent and nothing in sight. It simply wasn't going to work.

After weeks of hemming and hawing and "I'll be out thursday, no sunday, no wait I don't have a ride," mom managed to get her out and down to the homeless shelter, all her stuff remains here for now. Eric and I imagined a conversation with a shelter employee on the subject...

Employee: She just dropped you off? Wouldn't even let you live with her anymore? What a horrible woman!
Girl: Well... she was actually my landlady, not my mother...
Employee: Oh... well, what a nice landlady.

I know the shelters probably would rather people not live there, but at the same time they have to understand that people can't just be squatters, scroungers or moochers like that. If they want to not live in a shelter, they have to take steps to get their lives on track. Whether that means making peace with one's family (highly recommended) as they are the people one is supposed to be able to turn to, or else learning to take responsibility and work crummy jobs for enough money to live in a crappy place (like say, my mom's spare toom,) it is ultimately up to the individual to carve his or her place and function in society. We are both our own problem, and solution. Human empowerment, man.

I pumped up the bike tires and went for a long ride today. The bike is weird, because the air drains, but it can be sustained easily for the length of a round-Oakville tour. I should replace them, but I don't need to.

There was a time earlier in the summer, mostly June, when I would bike every day. It began to get depressing and routine, so I let my bike be for a while. I went back on my usual tour, up to Neyagawa & Dundas and back down via River Oaks... mostly because Oakville slopes down on the way back, it's not straight down one street (as if I were going to Wal-Mart or something,) so I can use multiple routes. Man, I got such an endorphin high, or whatever that feeling is when you get totally buzzed off physical activity alone. I hadn't really had much physical activity the pst month or so, although I keep saying "Maybe I'll go swimming on such-and-such a day." But who has the wherewithall to just go swimming randomly? I know it's fuckin' hot out, but the pool's only open for leisure swimming for two hours each day... not the bestiest window possible.

Plus, you should always go swimming with a buddy.

Anyway, I'm about ready to go crash. As you might imagine, it's been an exhausting day.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

II: It had never been what I saw in my head

Scott? Where on earth have you been, boy?

I've mentioned before, August seems to be the downturn of the blog year after year, and it's not hard to see why. What is August? It's the last month of summer, when all my routines have become so old and played out, when nothing happens but anticipation. August doesn't really do it for me.

So it got to be August 5th, and I had absolutely nothing to say. I was living life, you know, quietly, all week. Go out for coffee here and there, chill out with Amanda J. on her day off, rent a movie or two, get stifled in the heat... when I went down to get comics on Wednesday, I sat by the lake and watched what appeared to be some kind of sailing lesson from the pier. I'd been living life somewhat anonymously here in the thick of summer. Naturally, this had to end.

"Summer 2007," I told Chrisbrown as we were driving last night, "Will not go down in the history books." He agreed, fondly recalling summer 2005. I told him I thought 2006 had some very good moments, too. But we can all agree that 2007 has gone poorly, I guess because apparently, after two years of university, everyone feels the need to roam, and I suppose I can respect that a bit. But it does nothing for me.

We were driving to Pat's place. He was hosting a mini barbecue before a bunch of people were to gather at Lauren's place. The usual suspects were there. Cary's back from Alberta, I saw Nate P. for the first time in like a year too, but he didn't come to Lauren's. We sat a while and enjoyed the cool summer evening, talking about nothing in particular, except for Pat lamenting the unfortunate experiences of the drinking he'd done the night before (complete with hilarious pantomime.)

We got to Lauren's, I had four Keiths with me, which given my stature and bulk is easily a whole night of drinking. Lord knows I can't put 'em away like Chris or Cary, but I do what I can.

Alcoholic drinks, most particularly beer, are the only ones you drink in that way. I've never finished a Coke or a coffee and thought, "I need to go get another one." I do take refills at restaurants, but the point is it's never so urgent. "Shit, man, I need another beer." The culture of drinking is one unto itself.

As with any night at Lauren's, it started off in the kitchen. She's a good friend, and a champ for always hosting, but her house has never felt ideal for entertaining. Inevitably, the kitchen gets overfull and a few people take their business in to the partitioned-off living room with the amazing plush leather couches. This was the case; and eventually it became a gender game, with the guys and girls segregated in the kitchen and living room respectively. After watching a Youtube documentary on Oakville's most famous citizen Borka - or "Crazy Maria," which you can search for there - that segregation was busted up and I spent the bulk of the night on a armrest next to "some girl" as Cary re-told the infamous story about the time Jeff Allsop... well, if you know the story, you know it, and if you don't, ask Cary because I'm sure as shit not telling it. No pun intended?

I didn't have much to say all night, and was positively swimming in it for the first time seemingly in months, so by the end of the night I observed somewhat hazily as they played Cary's much-lauded drinking game on the kitchen floor. Not going to lie, from my observations it didn't really live up to the hype. It was kind of a carnival game, a lot of energy being expended for a few drinks. I don't know though... my perception was distorted by inebriation. Chris and I had CB take us home. I mulled around a bit, let the dog out, and then got sick and went to bed.

I'm a vomitter. This has been the subject of much discussion over the years. I may never truly be able to make people understand the situation... that it's more complex than "Oh he drank too much there he goes," but I prove myself, time and again with actions. I have vomitted many times in many peoples' houses, but never at anyone's inconvenience but my own. I don't enjoy it, that's for damn sure, but maybe I've destroyed my stomach with too much Coca-Cola in younger years that sometimes - by no means all the time but often enough - it's just too much. Or maybe it's my head, there's another likely subject. I'm a vomitter and though I know it's a problem, for myself more than anyone, I am not ashamed of it because I do my part and, except for one extenuating circumstance last October, never left a real mess and even that was outside. Maybe I just have a more Roman attitude toward it. Like I said, it ain't a choice but I can accept it.

After a grotesque misadventure back on New Year's, I made my resolution for 2007 not to vomit. Perhaps it was optimistic of me to think that I could go from January 1 to December 31 without vomitting, but I've done a remarkable job and, in the time since, have done so probably less than I had the last few weeks of 2006. This often comes with the aid of medicine, which I have been lacking of late, and which also doesn't always help (especially if you take it after drinking 5 G&T's.) But back to last night. I got home and got sick.

It was so loud, so disturbing, apparently, that our boarder, Amanda, texted Eric to let him know I had probably drank too much and that I was puking my guts up. Well, who's to say what's too much? I'd say I'd had just enough, but hey, this shit is inevitable for me sometimes... mind you, I'd probably have been better served by trying to walk it off a while rather than just collapse into bed, which always seems to just kick me in the crotch with this stuff.

After two sessions at the vomitorium, and a thorough cleaning (most of it hit the mark, but not necessarily all,) I finally settled in and went to bed. It was a good sleep, which may mean that this mysterious thing on my neck is finally going away (seriously, whatthefuck?) as it's affecting me less though by no means gone. I woke up around 9:15, and then decided that was too bloody early, particularly after a night of drinking, so I rolled over and slept for another hour.

Apart from a bitter taste in my mouth and a stomach that at first didn't know if it was coming or going, I felt fine, even great. Perhaps due in part to the expulsion of toxins, as well as consumption of water, I usually seem to bounce back from nights like these with ease. My record of few hangovers (one) is a point of pride for yours truly. For the second day straight, I opted not to go for coffee, because, hey... shit, man, why be such an addict? I may go back to the routine tomorrow, but there's no need to make every day about it.

"How did it get to be august?" wondered Chrisbrown. It happens every year, August is probably among the least anticipated months. It's just loaded with dread, but you know, after May, June and July, I'll actually be ready to go back to school this year. For two and a half months, I was just fucking stressed about bullshit nonsense. Since the middle of July, I've been zen, man, and by September, who knows. I could be downright eager.

But I can't really speculate too much on the future, because if the past is any indication, then the future is nothing but uncertain. I don't like that sentence, but I'm leaving it, because it expresses my point well enough; that you just never can tell.

I guess I'm done for today. Keep on rockin'
-Scott