116: The Genie's in the Gin

I don't think of my family as dysfunctional, but every now and again I get a frame of reference of how functional some families are. It's a sliding scale. We function, in that we have a system and everything operates well within that system. We get along okay, but there's sometimes unique hostilities. This isn't a big deal. Some people I know have families that hardly communicate, or are plagued by alcoholism and warring parents. Unfond as my parents may be of each other, they make their arrangement work, and only secretly seem to resent the hoops each has to go through to serve the needs of their still-dependant children. (That said, I wouldn't be so dependant if dad hadn't talked me out of moving, so bollocks on it all. I'm still here on his advice.)

I just got in from the lamest Risk game ever. I say this, because we did not actually play Risk. Pat ended up not showing because his sister was in town and it's his birthday, so they did a whole happy family thing. If my brothers moved away and came to visit, I don't know if I'd make a big fuss, birthday or no. What we ended up doing was CB, Chris and James Edgar played Halo 3 while two other dudes sat around talking about pot and I made wisecracks at everyone else's expense. I got home around 12:30, too early to have had a good Risk game, too late to have watched a new episode of South Park. Not happy about that outcome. Maybe we'll play tomorrow. Maybe we'll drink. I could go for that. You might've guessed from the title.

I've been checking the webstat counter. As usual we seem to be getting visitors from all corners, which sometimes unnerves me. Sometimes, I can place who I might know out there. And I know I have a large following in Asia because of what appears to be a glitch on what appears to be a popular blog search engine that keeps leading back here. Also, because of the reference to My Cousin Vinny, somehow we're turning up in the results for that. I don't know who I know in Ancaster, altohugh I hear it's close to Hamilton and I definitely have contacts there, so it might just be an ISP thing. At least one hit from Boulder, Colorado. This sends up a red flag because I have a Prof originally from Colorado and for whatever reason my mind went right there. It's not easy to search oneself and wind up here, I don't think, but not impossible either (especially given that I also know what people are searching to get here, as exemplified by Ms. Tomei.) So that's probably only a coincidence. I also noticed one, a few days ago, from Nashua, which is either in New Hampshire or Iowa. If it's the latter, I have a slight idea where that one came from.

Not that I mind. If you can stand reading this blog, you're welcome to it (providing you understand that by reading you've waived the right to call me out on the blog being bullshit, since hey, what did you expect?) Just know that I'm watching the lurkers. I have a vague idea what's moving in the shadows.

That said, today was a thoroughly uneventful but altogether satisfying Friday. It began by jolting awake from a rocksolid sleep to the strains of Slash's anthemic riff from Sweet Child o' Mine. I've heard tell he doesn't like it because it's such a basic lick, but really, the simplest ones are the ones you hum. Aerosmith knew that, and Guns n' Roses really wanted to be them, as far as I've heard. I went through the motions groggily, showering and packing a lunch, observing the wreck that more or less constitutes our kitchen.

I may have been mistaken when I told Robyn several weeks ago that there was no Jeff or Suzie. A small group of recurring characters is starting to emerge on the GO train, partly comprised of Kyle Sanderson's twin sister, a chef, his friend the CPA (but she doesn't do taxes, and she's like 15-20 years younger) and a woman who may or may not be my Grade 5 teacher, Ms. Jacobs, now married and known as Mrs. Golightly. I decided she wasn't, but imagined in my mind what I would say if I ran into her. I'm under the impression that, at least at that age, I was the type of kid who made an impression on teachers, and Ms. J and I interacted a lot as I was supposedly gifted. Also she was one of my favourite teachers throughout all of grade school. I've come a long way since then

Of course, I've also still got a ways to go. Go figure.

So I got to my sparsely-attended tutorial. We talked reality, being a brain in a vat, and knowing whether the sky is blue. I got my midterm back, bad stuff, I probably should have studied harder. I'm not usually one to stress on marks, and I didn't fail, but this was low even for my expectations. It was multiple choice what got me... my short answers (long answers?) ruled.

An hour later and I'm in Narrative. I'm not sure how into the discussion I was and I'm really lost on this paper, dude in about 2 weeks. I oughtta seek help. Well, I've been saying that for years (hot-cha!)

An hour, a sandwich, and some mulling about later and I'm in Film Study. This guy keeps picking fights with the poor TA and she does her best to find him off... he's a fuckin' smartass and not in the good way (like me.) I'm not sure what gave him the idea poeople want to hear his opinions or that he should voice them freely.

I got to Union station too early for the train, so I stopped by the arcade. Someone was on the Austin Powers Pinball machine so I had to amuse myself someway else.

When I got back to Oakville I wandered down Kerr to Comic Connection and picked up some books for the week. It's a good thing not many good comics are published anymore or else I'd just be burning through my cash so much faster. As they continue to get repeatedly cancelled, my pull list should be virtually nonexistent by this time next year.

I got home to discover the standing lamp, which lights much of the basement, had gone blammo, and now I'm sitting here in dim shadowyness. It's not that bad, but it's not feng shui.

His luck, it gave in as the dawn light crept in...

I remember the first time I listened to London Calling the whole way through. It was a freaking revelation. The songs seemed to have come from deep within my own psyche, where the rhythms that move my soul reside, I had such a deep reaction. Oftentimes, but not as much as I should, I just lie back and listen and try to call on those feelings again. It's not people or places we pine for, but our senses. We keep returning to sounds and sights and smells that made us happy once in hopes that we can be that way again.

It's really late, man.

I've decided that I'm going to at least enter the NaNoWriMo this year. It's a dumb idea and I don't intend to win (although that doesn't mean I won't try.) I should probably take a more serious approach to my studies, so I won't let it get in the way of that. That being said, I'm going to need to blow off some steam and if I don't at least toss my hat in, I'll obsess over this all month long. Better to try and fail than to sit back and say "I won once, good enough for a lifetime." Besides, my idea, less a novel than a memoir, should flow easily given that it's about the subject I know most about (myself.) Now the question is: can I get 50,000 words out of my meagre experiences?

Hrm.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto