11: It's only time and good sense that I lack

I'm back in the Beatles lately, although I never really left 'em. I go through increasingly rapid phases of infatuation with their music. I was at the height of one last fall when Joe participated in a tribute night that happened to extend it by way of seeing a 1965-era tribute act playing a number of songs I'd never heard, some of which I became quite infatuated with (primarily I Call Your Name.)

I bought a book yesterday called "A Hard Day's Write: The Story Behind Every Beatles Song." I'd heard about it sometime ago during an earlier fixation period, and while it contains very little that I didn't already know, or that I couldn't have found on the internet someplace, it's still an enjoyable enough piece of writing. Not an overly hard way to make a living. When I was in high school I read "A Day in the Life" a book that detailed the Beatles' history through their history, the author had spent a long while trawling through the Abbey Road archives.

It's been one of the more eventful weekends of August despite not much actually happening. This month really escaped me in a hurry and my entries of late have been tedious to write, let alone live, let alone let alone read.

So Friday was built around boredom and the generally sad nature of my life. Around midnight, Cary came on and asked me a strange question, whether it would be okay for him to show up at my house at like 1:30, and could he crash on my couch. Sure, I says, but why not just go further a block to his own parents' place? Doesn't want to wake 'em, he says. So I says okay, since I've slept on his couches numerous times this was the least I could do. Due to the rain he was a little later, so around 2 he's pulled up to my house by Vanessa Brown (why he did not simply sleep at Vanessa's, who knows, whatever. I take it as a compliment he just wanted to hang out with me) and we went down to the basement. I don't think it was Cary's first time seeing the place, but I don't have people down often, especially I didn't before Eric moved out, so maybe he hadn't actually been down there. He was impressed with the set-up, enough to justify my not having moved out.

He ate McDonald's, I played Super Mario Bros. 3, we talked about our usual bunch of topics. After an hour or so, he'd finished his food and I let him sleep for the night. I'd told him my usual routine of going for coffee with Manda on Saturday mornings, welcomed him along if he'd wanted to, but in the morning he ultimately decided to just go on home, sleep some more, then go furniture shopping (his actual reason for being in town.)

Among other things, Amanda and I talked for like a half hour about tattoos. It started as a general overview of body modifications when we saw a dude with those giant stretched-out lobes, and I wondered what the guy was gonna tell his grandkids fifty years from now when they ask their moms why grampa's ears are so gross and weird. This was actually me re-stating a thought I'd had earlier in the week but had nobody around to express it to, as is often the case with my random musings, most of which find their way into this blog. So anyway, the topic shifted to tattoos, discussing people we'd known who'd gotten them, the places on the body that were acceptable, and the suitable subjects.

I decided I could probably never commit to anything to a sufficient degree to justify tattooing it on myself. I joked about a few possible nominations for tattooing -- the first, a Watchmen smiley face with a bloodstain on it. Simple, iconic, meaningful to those who get it and with a reasonable explanation for those who did not. Filling those same criteria would be my second idea, the "runic" symbols from Led Zeppelin's fourth album. I don't love Zeppelin that much, but I do like them, and a lot of people do love them that much. I might consider that before I'd consider the logo of my favourite band, Aerosmith.

The third selection, along the lines of music, would be an elaborate, full-color reproduction of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band cover, with me dropped in there giving the thumbs up or going for a high five or something.

The last idea I had was a full reproduction of William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow, which would fit nearly on any acceptable tattoo location.

Oh, one more idea that gained very little traction with Amanda was a large rendering of the Grimace across my stomach. For some reason she did not think that an image worth tattooing.

For her part, Amanda had a design she had conceived long ago, an imaginary flower meant to represent things that had been developing in her life at the time.

I later spoke to my brother about it, and he reminded me of his idea if he were to get a tattoo -- which like me he would not do -- it would be a fork and knife symbol on his forearm, so that when people would ask him what they meant, he could just say "Nothing!" But I'll come back to that scene later.

Mom was cleaning the hell out of the place when I got home. She revealed that she would be renting the room out again after her home staging venture (unsurprisingly) failed to pan out. FOR SOME REASON this involved hauling out this couch-futon thing that had been stowed in our shed all winter, which meant Brando and I (not the must burly men ever,) had to move it all the way through the house, with furniture and dog in the way, and the thing constantly at risk of unfolding. My forearms are still sore. Oy.

So as if that wasn't pain enough, I had to go to dinner with dad the moment we were finished (har har.) Really though, Dad had told us Deb was away, so why not go out to Toronto, get Eric and eat at his hangout, Burger Boy? Well, I had complained to Manda earlier about how much I always dread going out to eat because of my stupid insane hang-up about eating in public, and though I wish it weren't so, it is a fairly irrevocable fact. But I don't like to press it on people, so on those rare occasions when dad wants to take us out to eat, I just go with it, pop a Gravol and get on with my life.

It was a nice little place. Although I had a salad at a time when I could probably have stood to get a bit more protein. Or just not seem like a woman. In the end I was okay, but only because I'm getting better at making it work.

Anyway, thanks to my stupid self-medicating, I got home and pretty well conked out after fighting drowsiness for a while. Then I drifted in and out before ultimately going to bed.

While writing this entry, I was listening to Invisible Invasion by the Coral. When I first listened to it I was pretty disappointed. I consider their first album their most engaging work, due to its reckless energy, but that their second album, Magic and Medicine, was a more likely target due to its smooth retro-pop sensibilities. It wasn't quite as listenable as that, or as evocative as their third album, Nightfreak and the Sons of Becker, but after my first listen I was really unimpressed and vowed to put it away, vowing to give it another listen someday. So I did, and I liked it. It's still not as good as those other three, a difficult listen to be sure, but a worthwhile one with a couple standout tracks (one, In the Morning, I'd heard prior to buying the record, and is completely unlike anything else on the album.) A while back, Ryan and I were on the train and they happened to come up because their song Dreaming of You had been used in an episode of Scrubs and wanting to know more about them he found some more songs from their first album, but nothing that satisfied to the degree that song did. I'd say there are a few really good songs on that album, but just nothing of that caliber, on that album or any others. Very few bands write a song like Dreaming of You, though.

Anyway, it's been a good night for bloggin'. We should catch up like this more often. except I should have consistently interesting things to say.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

10: She is with you

I'm sure I've been this lonely before, but it's hard to come up with better evidence.

Cripes. It's 11:47 on a Friday night and I'm an able-bodied 22-year-old exiling himself ni his basement listening to a 39-year-old interview with John Lennon and procrastinating. I could be writing my new-new play, which I'm really excited about. I've been getting good ideas that feel a bit more pure, less forced, than the ones in my old-new play. More like me. I'm worried it's not different enough from Half-Past. I feel like people would see this one that's in the works and go "He already did this, but he had a bench and a prostitute and a transsexual mafia person. Where's all that stuff now?" But there are things in here that wouldn't have worked in that play at all.

I overthink things like this. I assume my audience is just gonna hate anything I do for some reason, be frustrated by my ambition because maybe I ain't got the talent to pull it off. I've been assured I do, by some parties reliable enough to say so and some not. I'm incredibly neurotic about the writer-audience interaction because when something doesn't work in something I'm watching, I'm thinking about the guy who wrote it and what he was trying to accomplish. When something does work, most people don't think about the guy who wrote it, they think about the person saying it. What a thankless job. I don't mind, though.

I wrote a line of dialogue that was way off-kilter. And I loved it because it didn't sound anything like the way a person would write a line of dialogue but it sounded to me weirdly enough like the way a person would end up saying it. And I re-read it and I thought about it and I liked it enough to keep it, but all the while I was thinking "People are just going to think I'm too stupid to know how people actually talk." But that's just my insecurity.

Nothing much interesting going on, really. Just felt like venting.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

09: This is a new perspective

I lowered my desk chair. Way back in the stone ages when Eric and I used to have to share the desk, the chair was one of the little disagreements in philosophy we had. He liked it up at its full height for some reason, and kept his legs up on a chair we kept beside the desk. I liked it at a more medium height, kept my legs under the desk.

Right now I've got it set near the lowest height. I feel very cozy, like I'm on vacation. I'm not sure I can get a lot done in this position but hey, why start getting work done now, eh? EH? Aw, man.

I was thinking about this summer and how it's almost over. It won't be a frightfully big adjustment given I was in school much of the summer, but still, my freedom will be cut back more and more. No comment, I guess. Same old. It's all routine by nows.

Frankly starting to get restless, and the weather's geting cihlly again anyhow, not that that hasn't been the trend over this fucking summer. I shouldn't complain, it's been the best summer in years, life-wise.

The high point of the summer was of course the early part of it, and things have gotten progressively less eventful. July was overall a busy month, and summer became more of a drag after Manda's wedding and I had nothing left to look forward to after classes ended in early August. Then when school comes back, I've got something of a life, and not much of a life, and I surrender to routine and just let it all wash over me and shield myself from the harshness of life, and I complain about homework and other stuff I probably thought I would've outgrown by now, but hell, man.

It seems like a great place for an existential crisis, but I'm really just bored.

I wish I had more to say. I feel like I should but right now the big story is transitioning out of the activeness of summer into the stability of fall and winter. I wish I was still the kid who could come home at the end of the day and explain everything that happened, but the truth is, every day seems the same to me and I get bored trying to recount it. As a result I end up not recounting any of them.

Rented some stuff at Blockbuster today. Adventureland and I Love You, Man. I'm getting back to watching movies, getting back to drawing, getting back to writing.

I didn't talk to Cary much for a little while, then earlier this week we started talking more and I guess it snapped me out of my creative lull unintentionally, because I've been writing again. Oddly enough it's a new project, a play based on a bunch of stores I already wrote or plotted, rather than one of the other plays I was already committed to.

Go figures. How in character.

What I need is focus.

I'm drowsy. This entry could have been longer but I got distracted. Not that you're missing out. Is that an excuse? Whatever.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

08: Words in the wind

Oh sweet bloggage.

Summer is never a particularly good time for the blog. You'd think, with copious amounts of free time, I'd have more time to sit and have thoughts and then record those thoughts in SWP form, but the truth is I don't usually tend to blog as much unless there's something extra-interesting going on in my life. The catch is, if it's really all that interesting, it's probably taking up all my time anyway. The trick is having something routine and repetitive yet interesting and different each time, like a class I enjoy, if it's the school year.

Whereas in the summer I just have to sit around being bored until enough time has passed. And since nothing has happened lately, I blog about how nothing has happened, like how my best friend in grade 5 and I used to talk on the phone until we had nothing left to talk about, then we'd talk about that.

A more interesting person would've had that anecdote about a girl. BUT YOU ARE READING THIS WHY.

Ahem.

Writing. Drawing. Doing stuff, occasionally. Waging war on the rotten peaches and the wasps that covet them. Hrm. See, here's how it is. We've got this peach tree in the backyard. We used to have a few trees but we cut most of 'em down. One remains and it grows peaches by the arseload. Because we are not peach farmers and don't even particularly enjoy the fruit in its natural state, they just bloom until they hit the ground and stay there for the wasps to prey upon. Pathetic, a very sad fate for an innocent, guiltless, well-meaning fruit. Moldy and dead, unloved except by the insects that feed upon its sugars. So the wasps all congregate in the backyard which is bad when I need to clear away the dead peaches for lawn mowification.

So last night, after the wasps leave the office (my current theory is that they work a slavish 10 or 12-hour work day then return to the nest in the evening and bitch about it to their spouses.) I gathered up all the peach remains I could in a plastic bag and tossed it out (OH FUCK I COULD HAVE COMPOSTED THAT SHIT I HOPE EARTH DOESN'T FEEL TOO BETRAYED) it was nasty. I went to mow the lawn the next day but of course more peaches had fallen and they were being pillaged thoroughly by the wasps. Irritated and already part way into the mowing (therefore, what the poker players call "pot-committed") I decided to take a two-pronged attack. One was to poison the shit out of the peaches, the other was to smash them out of the way with a baseball bat (I'd have used a golf club, but we don't have any lefties around.)

I was reluctant to poison the peaches and surrounding grass because of the number of times per day that the dog goes out there, and well, poison would not be good for him in this state. So after I was sure the wasps wouldn't have much of a chance to get back in there, and I had mowed to satisfaction, I hosed it down fairly thoroughly, hopefully diluting the poison. Anyway, last time I looked he was still alive, so good.

Of course, that's just the way it is no matter what. He is, after all, an extremely old dog by now. A few years ago, mom began to think seriously about how old he was getting, but I told her she was jumping the gun. By now I totally agree. We've had him since late '94, and he was full-grown then. He's blind, he stumbles, sometimes seems extremely disoriented, poops a lot.

My house smells like dog poop.

It was one of the things that made me really want to go, the responsibility of helping care for such an elderly dog. And the general ambiance of the house where he is living and being old.

Well I still love him and he's still such good ole dog, it can at times be adorable (kind of like my great grandpa at his 100th birthday. He was all "Who are all these people?") and he's responsive to being called (although my mom and brother are less adept at it than I am,) and always eager to be fed, so... he's clearly still got a bit of time. All the same, he's lost a bunch of weight this past year, gotten really bony. Part of getting old and dying. Oh Entropy. How depressing.

YEP THIS BLOG THING SURE IS FUN HUH.

The weekend wasn't much, although CB and I went and caught Inglourious Basterds. It was violent and disturbing and awesome. Unless you hate Tarantino, then it sucks. Luckily, I am capable of enjoying things, so I liked it.

(Weird factoid: People who hate Tarantino tend to like Tim Burton. I'm not a huge Burton fan, and I'm also not a huge Tarantino fan, but I'd rather have Tarantino. Why are these directors opposite? Eh? Or is it all in my head probably.)

Anyway. We began to think more seriously about hitting the casino in Niagara, which led to me talking to Cary about it, which led to me getting back to writing. I was not, however, writing the play I already showed him, the one that still needs considerable revision. Rather, it was a new play, based on a few short stories I wrote, or that is, two that I wrote and one I am planning to write.

Anyway, I've been dawdling through this entry for about an hour, I guess I'll let you go.

I caught a fly in mid-air today. It's been a while since I've pulled off that maneuver. Been a while since I had to.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

07: This thought is fast

Ever have one of those thunderstorms that seems to be in your backyard? After the rain passed tonight the sky was a brilliant golden shade.

Just a quick one tonight. Whatever it is about having far too many projects (so true!) has sapped my will to blog, perhaps forever. Blame twitter.

My twitter ambition is to get famous and well-known enough that people will tweet at me and I will not feel compelled to address it, due to my excessive fame. For the most part, the people I follow are well-known and I tend not to tweet at them much, knowing nothing will come of it, although Rainn Wilson did answer a question I asked him about zombies, which was very kind of him.

For the record, it was during a SoulPancake poll of 5 people I'd bring back to life. I answered Cobain, Lincoln, Gandhi, Phil Hartman and Marvel comics legend Mark Gruenwald. Then I asked whether they'd be zombies, because my concern is that zombie Phil Hartman would be more concerned with brain-eating than awesome comedic timing.

Anyway, it's been a lazy few days. Tuesday was a pretty big one, I went out to Toronto to clear out my locker. Not that there was anything particularly special out there, just some textbooks I could sell, and my lock, which I didn't want cut. Basically I payed a $12.50 round trip plus $2.75 subway fare (one way, I walked the other) so that people wouldn't touch my stuff. Also because I had nothing else to do that day.

So I went down there, enjoyed the sunshine. Ran into Nayman, the rock star of the Innis community. He always seems glad to chat with me, or anyone he's taught, too bad he won't be around much in the future. He writes reviews for art house movies in Metro sometimes.

Yesterday I went for gelato with Robyn. Actually I got a sorbet but whatever. It was a big goodbye "let's hang out all afternoon" thing since she's going to Scotland until school starts, so I probably won't see her again for a while. We'd been talking about gelato forever and finally made it a reality. We also went into that record store I've been wondering about. Perhaps it was more interesting as a mystery. I felt like I was being judged for browsing too much. Like if I didn't walk out with a copy of the Who live imported I was a failure in the eyes of the guy behind the counter.

Also, I finally got around to putting in my resume for HMV so... fingers crossed. It's a little sketchy on whether they're actually actually hiring. I went down on Monday to talk to the new manager. I walked in and started staring blankly at the Wii games until she game and asked if she could help me, at which point I said "No not really, but are you the manager?" Followed by "Are you hiring? I used to work here, if that helps." She mentioned she might be, and that she was definitely interested in meeting ex-temps, so that's a plus. So I went by the next day, when she wasn't there, with my updated resume showing my former assistant manager, now manager of the Dorval location, as a reference. I handed in my resume to two people I'd worked with (of course) and they seemed upbeat about the idea I was trying to get back permanently. So that all looks possible.

The odd thing is, I said "a quick one" tonight, and it is maybe not the longest entry ever, but it's taken a while to get through, to sift through the boringness of my life to find those diamonds of coolness.

Also I took a moment to try to find the true spelling of "boringness" before realizing it may actually not be a real word. Hrmp.

I'll be off for tonight. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

06: This is rocket science

Lemon meringue pie at 1 AM, ladies and gentlemen.

Goddamn this twitter thing. It may be at the root of my lack of will to blog. After a certain point, SWP becomes a bit of a chore, albeit a labor of love. One of those things I feel like I have to do. Like, "Man, I should get around to writing that entry." And of course, when I'm supposed to do something, or getting around to doing something, I would rather be doing anything else. In addition to putting off blogging all week, I was running a Mafia game, which took precedence above all else (and was riveting to be frank) and other small writing projects, as well as bigger ones, most importantly the comic that has fallen by the wayside yet again.

So what I'm saying is, I've been watching a lot of movies this week.

You know your priorities are fucked up when you're procrastinating from procrastinating. Nothing I feel obligated to do is important, just things to do when I'm bored. But it's been this way for years, I get wrapped up in a project until it becomes too much of a burden and I leave it undone.

I would use that as an reason as to why my relationships don't seem to work out, but... what relationships, really?

So yeah, the last few days have been the story of me losing my dedication to something or other and doing something else instead. I just rediscovered Line Rider, which is terrible. But the good news is, I pretty much crafted my masterwork tonight, so I won't be getting sucked back into it.

Saturday was an interesting day, though. Inasmuch as SWP ever gets interesting (this is becoming a standard line, if it wasn't already.) After hanging out with Manda and having all the usual conversations (with the usual variations, not that they ever get old,) I went to feed Zoey for Dad and Deb. While there, I took advantage of the solitude and did something I've wanted done for a while, but never had the wherewithal to inquire.

One of the numerous pieces of technology bestowed on the family by my late Grandad was a record player that converts to CD and lays through its own speakers (the feature I'm more interested in.) I took it upon myself to set it up, and then dug into dad's vinyl collection.

Having grown up in the era of CDs, I've not actually experienced my vinyl in my time. Mrs. McCann, the music teacher at River Oaks, did have a record player for some of her old standbys, but that doesn't really count. And although a lot of my dad's records are ones I wouldn't touch with a lengthy pole, some of them are more than a little listenable. In this case, Abbey Road. When the needle dropped into that groove and the opening guitars of Here Comes the Sun (I purposely listened only to side 2,) I was blown away by the different sonic qualities that format offered. I never was much of an audiophile, but I could really hear it.

There's this little record shop of Kerr I'm fascinated by. It's always closed when I'm down there, which gives it that mysterious "We don't really give a shit if we're open" High Fidelity vibe. Or else, they're closed for good in which case they might consider emptying out the place. I want to go in there and browse at old LPs and stuff. Probably buy something, because I wouldn't have any idea if I'd ever get back in there again. Hell, I'd like to work there too.

After a few records, I went home and watched Back to the Future 2 with B, and we had what had to be a 10 minute conversation about what we'd do if we were to time travel - assuming we had chosen the destination, unlike Marty McFly who had to spend the entire time figuring out how to get back. Brando said he'd go to the 70's or something, while I said I'd want to go to the early 90's. A few reasons for this seemingly boring choice: one, I was there, but I wasn't really experiencing it at the time, so most of my experience is through hearing about it and reconciling that with my vague childhood memories. The other is that I wouldn't want to be able to jeopardize my own birth in any way. That's pretty important.

I went with Adam and Chris to see District 9 last night. Good flick. It used its metaphor pretty well, but didn't get too messagey, so I was glad when it ended with a giant shootout that lasted about 20 minutes. The documentary aesthetic was really cool too, and really enhanced the feel. Also, the special effects were neat.

Since I knew Chris would be up for hours anyway (he working the night shift,) he and I hung out for about 3 hours afterward playing Super Mario World. We started only a couple levels into Vanilla Dome, and while he primarily worked at beating Special World, I stormed through and beat Bowser.

Today I didn't do much of anything, adding to my unproductive streak. I'm cutting out morning coffee until it gets chilly again, though. I've been ruled by that compulsion far too long.

Tomorrow, a dentist's appointment to fill something (not a cavity) in one of my back teeth. Last time I was there I embarrassed myself a little bit because he was jabbering on about dental jargon and at the end I asked "So... is that it then?" and he said "Yeah... except for that filling I just told you you need." Fuck! I should floss more.

The thing that's always in the back of my mind is... what about wisdom teeth? I'm pretty far past the age most people I know have had them out. Mine don't seem to be budging one way or the other. I had one x-ray, one time, for them, and no follow-up.

I was crossing the road earlier tonight. I walked halfway out when I saw a car coming from the right, so I stood there in the lane (stupidly) waiting for that car to pass, and by the time it did, another car approaching from the left was closing in on me fast, and I was kinda drowsy so I didn't get out of the way very fast. I mean, I still made it, I'm not a total idiot, but it was a close enough call that the people (assholes) in the second car, after passing, yelled back at me, "Get outta the fucking road, you little fuck(er)!" And I walked on, thinking "Well, that was a little mean..." not entirely uncalled for, but mean. I mean yes, what I did was not only dangerous and inconsiderate, but made me look kind of like an asshole. Still, profanity yelled from cars hurts like rudeness over the internet -- quite a bit for a moment, then you say fuck it, the moment's passed, and dismiss the other person.

That said, I guess I'll make sure there are no cars at all in the immediate future. You can't say I didn't learn my lesson.

Like all nights, this night has been a bit of a waste as far as what I'd planned to do. Oh well, my own fault. Someday I'll learn. For reals.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

05: It's Kind of Hard to Believe

Tonight is a very good night to do something I do every night if possible anyway. I'm a big fan of nightwalking. Usually sometime between 8 and 10, depending if anything good is on TV, I walk down to Tim Hortons, get a double double, then come back, usually listening to my iPod but sometimes just mumbling incoherently to myself (which often, as tonight, becomes the basis for a blog entry.)

There are a bunch of reasons why I do this. One is that usually the evenings cool down to the point where a hot coffee is welcome, a good feeling. Another is it gets me out of the house, allowing things like Facebook, forums, etc, to refresh naturally as they do -- it's always an unfortunate feeling when you realize you're clicking on the same three or so tabs on your browser and hitting refresh over and over. For like an hour.

The weather's been annoying lately. For the last few days it's been chance of thundershowers. Saturday was pretty rainy. Sunday was Hellstorm 2009. Yesterday was supposed to rain all day, not a drop. I mowed the back lawn, tempting fate. Today I was getting in from the Mall when I saw a massive threatening cloud drifting overhead. I got home, lamenting how my lawn job would go unfinished due to the impending torrential downpour - B. was notably more frustrated due to his own lack of food. He has a complex about thunderstorms, although he can scarcely be blamed. He ordered a hamburger from Swiss Chalet. Not so cost effective but he can afford it.

An hour passed, the cloud dissipated, I went about my business and mowed the lawn after all. Then when I was done, it rained. Go figure.

So I've got some stuff on the ole to-do list now that I've got time. Write, draw - the usual stuff. I need to clean this place up.

Mom's on my case about it. And by "on my case," I mean, "Asked in a fairly reasonable manner, which annoyed me because I'm still on this territorial pissing kick after not moving out." The place is cluttered, I admit, but the last thing I want is her going through my stuff, throwing shit out at random, making me regret not being able to move out. (Define "able.") It's a touchy subject for me.

Of course, there's the rational part of my brain that says "Dude, you're diving deep into debt anyhow, don't make it worse. Head down, school for two more years, then work." Then I wonder what I expect "work" to be. Do I really expect to go back to journalism after four years out of Sheridan? Hell. I'd be happy just working at HMV for a few years and trying to make the writing thing happen in the meantime. But I have to work at HMV to begin with for that plan to make any sense. We'll see.

For the immediate future, that's on my plate. Literal "housekeeping."

So, my dreams have remained of a violent tenor lately, but they're getting milder. A few nights ago was plastic explosive on a CN tower elevator. The next night CB and I were resolving a hostage situation (with shotguns. Also, the hostage was Alyssa, I think.) Last night was just a fistfight. It's a very weird trend, but it's a bit of a step up from my previous usual dream trend of running away from stuff, or running to stuff.

I thought I had more to talk about, and I probably do. I can't really think of it. I'm getting slow. I was listening to Nightfreak and the Sons of Becker earlier, which is a great half hour of music to listen to on a summer night. Now i'm listening to selected tracks from Beatles For Sale.

I once heard this album referred to as being weaker due to its "war-weariness" -- the Beatles were having a busy year in 1964, must've felt exhausted. Honestly, the compositions are top-notch, though, possibly because of it. The mood is clearly bleaker though, which probably explains why I like it so much. "No Reply?" "I'm a Loser?" "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party?" Awesome tracks, all bummers. I like it better than Help, though.

I was talking to Pat about the Beatles on the weekend. At some point I apparently told him Revolver was the Beatles' best album. It sounds like something I might've said, but I don't agree with that assessment (anymore?) I'd say Abbey Road. It's certainly my favourite and a really good argument could be made. Many people would say Sgt. Pepper, but I hear a lot of flaws in that album, where the experimental art-flavour of it goes a bit awry. I've never been a big fan of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

Last week I read a story about a psycho who opened fire in a Women's fitness class because, at the age of 40-or-so, he was unable to sustain a relationship. It was all very disturbing, although the fact that his ultimate reaction to this sadly-too-common problem was to murder a bunch of women he didn't know probably indicates there was something unappealing about him. That said, some days, man, that's how it feels.

I guess I've just gotta get out there and make things awesome.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

04: Music that doesn't sound like music

Moonlight maybes and cryin' babies. You can fake it if it please you, if you feel you need to.

It's been a crazy day. It was crazy even before it began.

Pleasantly modestly inebriated after a night at Monaghan's watchung UFC with Chris Ferg, RyLai, Jas, BK and Karlyn Saturday night. I'm not so into UFC that I need to go and watch their PPVs whenever they're on (to be honest the only fighter I really care about is Lesnar, because Ryan really hates him and I think that's funny) but I am a fan of having a night out. I have to enjoy it while I can since I am pretty much resigned to the fact that I'm bound to Oakville for another year.

I still don't know how I feel about that. I was weighing the pros and cons with Chris as we were walking home last night, and I came back to the same facts I keep pointing out here - I've got it pretty good. I don't have to go live in a shitty basement apartment to prove a point about myself when I can live in a decent one for cheaper.

Confession: Part of me is totally convinced that my living situation is the entire reason I don't get satisfaction. Were I to move out and continue to be a failure with women ("the ladies" as my innumerable platonic female friends say,) the emotional toll on my ego would be devastating.

So anyway, at the end of that generally enjoyable but overall uneventful night (during which I made good on a longstanding bet that left me owing Ryan a drink) I fell asleep in my warm, cozy bed and had some weird goddamn dreams.

The first, extremely vivid one, amounted basically to me planting plastic explosives in an elevator at the CN Tower, for what reason we may never know. And then my dad caught me, subtly revealed he knew what I had done, and told me he hated me for it. Even in a dream, it hurts when your parent tells you something like that. Although considering I had just committed an act of terrorism, I think it's understandable.

I was then awoken by the crash of thunder. It was storming fiercely outside. It was about 7 AM at this point, so I buried my face under the covers and forced myself back to sleep. The second dream, though vivid and provocative, was a lot less easy to describe. It involved some kind of graduation ceremony. A ton of people from my past, like my Grade School best friend Drew, were there, as were more recent acquaintances like Kat and/or Erika. People were drifting in and out and making references to this video of me dancing on Facebook, which would probably be embarrassing to me, but I think I might be beyond embarrassment at this point in my life.

I woke up around noon as the storm was passing. It was a good, relaxing day. The theme of the weekend was relaxation, since I am completely free of the bonds of school for only a few weeks. I'm savoring it by wasting it. Eventually, I went over to Chris Ferg's to do some writing on the Subway play, although it wasn't a terribly productive day. Well, we're not really a productive bunch of guys. We talked about some of our issues with the project as-is, then made dick jokes for about an hour. Then we wrote nine or ten lines of dialogue and called it an afternoon.

There is other stuff to discuss, but to be honest it would go against the carefree attitude of this entry. After a generally humid day (perfect pool weather, wish I had one. I'd forgotten what summer was actually supposed to be like) the storm returned with a vengeance. I sat out front playing DS for a while until it just got too apocalyptic. Fun night.

I've got to do some drawing. I also need to stay up late (which is of course not late for me) to watch Entourage because The Movie Network (actually HBO Canada) thought it would be funny to freeze up during the entire broadcast, and I really like that show. Also, bought Flight of the Conchords season 2. A while back, at Alyssa's birthday, I got into a discussion with some of her friends about that season, and they thought the material was not as strong. I'd agree, because the first season was of course brilliant, but what they provided for season 2 was, in general, songs that had better context within the episodes themselves, some of which were on par with the best of season 1 (the exception not the rule.) It's hard, however, to argue with the brilliance of "Sugalumps" (in the mode of Black-Eyed Peas) and "You Don't Have To Be a Prostitute" (as good or better than Roxanne) or the awesome West-Side Story lift "Stay Cool" that exists side-by-side with the Biz Markie-esque "Hurt Feelings." Or the dynamite folk-pop "Carol Brown" coming on the heels of the fiery "Too Many Dicks on the Dance Floor." Indeed, I would say that although not as fresh as season 1, the writing was often a bit sharper in season 2, and that the songs blended a bit better with the episodes. I might still prefer season 1, but I'll be deriving a great deal of pleasure re-watching season 2.

Okay, that feels like sufficient rambling tonight. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

03: All I know is desire, to be longing to belong

I could decide between the two clauses in today's title, so I used both as they struck me as similar enough. A short one tonight I should think though.

A couple days ago my "project" (cute name for things I do when I am bored,) was to attempt to get into Radiohead. In brief: I was really familiar with 2 songs of theirs. Creep, which I understood to be the "early, less defined sound" they were likely to consciously attempt to escape. So I couldn't assume all their songs were like that. The other song was Paranoid Android, a tune I actively disliked as far as considering it an unenjoyable listen - long, meandering, overly arty. Someone else's thing but not me. I appreciate great art but for music I mainly like rock. Occasionally you get Dark Side of the Moon that properly bridges both, or else a true rock album so brilliant it deserves to be considered art on its own terms (Sgt. Pepper, Pinkerton, and if you ask me Rocks by Aerosmith but I'll forgive you for disagreeing since you're not wrong.) For whatever reason I assumed most of Radiohead's music was not unlike that song, although I should at lest have expected more as the band has a considerable reputation for inventiveness. If nothing else, I should have expected different reasons to dislike each song - which would eventually, I'm sure, lead to one or two or a few that I liked.

So I downloaded three songs and ended up liking each to a certain degree. Fake Plastic Trees and Karma Police were on the "good but I don't really wanna keep them around" side. I can appreciate them but wouldn't use the space on my iPod for them. It only sounds unfair until you realize number of Aerosmith and Beatles songs that didn't make the cut. I'm still working only with two gigs, I have to be picky.

The other one was a potential keeper, a song I was familiar with through its music video, but couldn't have hummed if you asked me - "Just." I don't remember liking it from seeing it on "Best Videos of the 90's" and whatever subsequent listens I might've gotten, but I dig it. It's something to bob the head to, and it sounds cool. Close to my idea of good music. There's that chorus, though, that stuck with me. "You do it to yourself." Yeah, I do.

This whole moving out thing. Lordy. I feel like I could've make it work. I feel like I still could. But I'm getting that feeling like I had back before first year where all I can do is shake my head for missed opportunities. I went out to the city today to look at a place, got there late -- Brittany, my potential roommate got there later -- missed the landlord. Saw the outside of the place. It looks shitty, but that's University-sponsored housing for you, ne? Met the girls who live on the main floor. Too attractive to live in the same structure with. With all due respect.

So it was time for tough talk. With less than a month before school starts, a house-hunting partner who isn't exactly pro-active in the search (not that I've been totally on top of things, but she's going away on vacation for a week soon) and no dire need to move out, the move is looking to have been putsched. None are surprised. Someone collected easy money on that bet, I tell you. Actually moving out was the long shot that would've made you rich.

I mean, it's not totally over with and dead. There's no telling, it might work out. The deal is, the landlord has basically filled all his 2-bedrooms, but has 3-bedroom places left, so if there's someone out there at U of T who needs someplace, and I can find them... well like I said. It's not impossible but I'd be a fool to call it likely.

But I come back to Radiohead, back to Just, back to me doing it to myself. If I were dedicated, if I were truly committed to getting out of this town, I'd be gone. The only thing keeping me here is myself, my comfort, my distaste for change. Me. It's another excuse for self-loathing. As though I needed one.

The power to change is within my hands and I just... toss it down. Last time this was a serious issue, before first year, I blamed my lack of action on the lack of support from my parents, neither of whom seemed overly enthusiastic about the idea ("Oh, but you can commute, can't you?") Admittedly, it wasn't because of them. They didn't help, but the decision came down to me, standing on St. George street in the middle of the summer and feeling overwhelmed, thinking, "I'm going to want to get away from this at the end of the day."

It was a pretty lousy decision, although admittedly if I hadn't decided to stay in Oakville that year, I wouldn't have become friends with RyLai, wouldn't have hung out with Robyn during first year, other stuff. I don't regret not moving out then, but I have this continual sense of remorse that I haven't moved out since, but I can always say "Oh well it's cheaper." Oh justification.

This time, I think my parents took the idea that I might move out about as seriously as I did - possible but maybe not likely. They were more receptive this time, which probably owes to Eric having moved out, which was not a matter that was up to debate. Had he gone to Humber before I ever applied to U of T, they might have had my back at the time. But if ifs and buts were... something, something would be something. Hm?

When I told dad about it, he shrugged and consoled -- "Next year, get started earlier." No kidding. Well, I'm thinking about it more seriously now. Getting closer. Maybe the fourth time will be the charm.

Comfort v. independence. Affordability v. convenience. Suburban loneliness v. Urban isolation. Neither sounds particularly good and I'll find a way to hate myself either way. Everyone else leaves this town. Why has it proven such a formidable opponent for me, whereas others knocked it out in the first round?

Well. Here's the deal. I'm 22 and I live at home. But living at home might not be the same for me as it is for you. I look around, I've got my kitchen, my fridge full of my expired food and condiments, my beverages, my dishwasher. My oven, that never gets used because the filament went out like two years ago, except for the stove top. My basement kingdom. Everything about this place has been tailored for me. I go days and days without talking to or seeing mom, so there's no real sense of "parental intrusion" a lot of people feel. I'm on my own without being on my own, and sadly, tragically, my brother's existence depends on mine. Some days, I feel like the little Jenga block at the bottom of the tower. Try to move me and the whole goddamn thing's gonna collapse. I keep saying "Someday I'll be gone" and when they choose to believe it it makes them a tad uncomfortable.

The first year I was at Sheridan, Alyssa was at Ryerson. I went and visited her a couple times on her apartment near Bloor & Sherbourne. We were both right out of high school and she, only a year older than me, was living in this cool apartment in the middle of what was at the time a very mysterious city. It's the kind of thing I want. I'm not giving up on it, but I've got to be practical. The idea isn't dead, only the lead really is.

(Also, moving at this point would necessitate a number of paperwork alterations which I'm not keen to do. I can find excuses anywhere. Fuck my life - I do it to myself.)

I've often said I am the architect of most of my own suffering. If you've never heard me say it, it's because I mostly say it quietly to myself when I think nobody is listening. But I've been saying it for years.

I take it on myself. But it's one thing to say it. What am I going to do? Now there's a question. Am I to keep going, making the same mistake, knowingly? Disallowing my life to truly start? Becoming a prisoner of my own self-deprecation and neuroses?

Well, change happens with time. I'm thinking about it. That's an important step (almost as important as doing it -- but also it ensures I don't do it wrong.)

Well. It's all out there now. And it wasn't such a short one. But it kinda devolved into extreme self-loathing near the end. Any excuse.

I'm done summer school. I was irritated that the whole "go look at the house" thing had to happen today (even more so because it didn't end up happening) because I was looking forward to just relaxing and being carefree. I crammed like shit for my last test. If I had to guess, I'd say based on empirical evidence that I got about a 70. It felt worse than that - not as awful as it might have been but not my best effort - but it seems as though 70 is the number for that class. When I told dad that, he rolled his eyes. I got a 70 on my paper, which I made a point of telling everyone out there that I wrote in about 4 hours the day of. Not my best effort, but better than some I'd given myself more time on, in subjects I felt more engaged by. I don't know how to interpret that, although the whole "I'm only doing one class" thing seems to factor in.

So I'll take the 70 on that paper. Not a terrific mark, but for the level of effort I wound up providing, it'll do strongly. For a while I was concerned I'd fail it was so shitty.

There will be time to make things right. There will be time. And I will.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

02: Three Identical Doors

I was at a family gathering on the weekend - Monday, it being the long weekend. Cam's birthday, which for a long while I was concerned I'd miss because it might've coincided with Amanda's wedding, but things worked out that it was the next weekend.

Unusual for family gatherings, I cracked open a beer. It was a hot summer afternoon, I felt good about it. It was Cracked Canoe, a light beer. Inside the caps were little sayings. Mine was "You never forget your first slow dance." My aunt, to whom I'd been talking about writing and other stuff, said she didn't remember hers.

I remember mine vividly. And now, unfortunately, you're going to have to read about it. Or else, skip ahead a while.

It was the end of grade 5, the beginning of the long journey that brought me eventually to SWP. It was that magical summer of your life when a switch goes off in your head and suddenly you go "Wait a second, of course! Girls! It all makes sense now! Look at that!" It also began the pattern of me being totally clueless how to actually handle women. It was my best friend's birthday party, a pool + "boy girl dance" party where the soundtrack was comprised primarily of Aquarium by Aqua. To this day I still feel like an 11-year-old when I hear "Dr. Jones." Which is, of course... not often.

But yeah. It was like a Kim Mitchell song. Patio lanterns and everything. The scent of the pool wafting in the air, the overwrought Scandinavian technopop ballads. My hands on the hips of a girl who was far, far taller than I was. Asking advice from everyone I encountered. Over the previous two weeks, it became increasingly obvious that, for whatever reason, this girl was flirting with me, and, not yet having my extroverted tendencies destroyed yet (not for another couple weeks anyway,) I was able to successfully fight through 11-year-old awkwardness and keep her interested.

I don't want to get into the specifics of what was said or who reacted badly to what, but the general consensus afterward was that I said something really, really wrong. It only occurred to me, believe it or not, right now, how the words I said might have been misinterpreted, but either way the words were badly chosen, even with their original intention intact.

It's sort of a High Fidelity moment, thinking about it. We're 11 years past that moment, literally half a lifetime away. I don't think about it often. Other, more pleasant memories have taken its place. But I think it defined enough of my life that it's worth thinking on.

Maybe I'll never truly understand the extent to which that night defined the course of my life. I don't regret it. It's made me the person I am now, and I like that guy, even if he doesn't really get laid. Or maybe I was always going to be this guy. I can't really see myself turning out like the friends I had back then did. They were mostly bound to be jocks, and I was their nerdy friend (even though I wasn't really much of a nerd, what the hell.)

Anyway. This was probably not the most opportune time to drive down memory lane. I've been on one of my famous procrastination jags. I've got my final Poli Sci test tomorrow and I ought to be studying. Last night I stayed up until 2 listening to/watching Garfunkel and Oates videos and playing Freecell. Clearly I am making the most of my youth.

I feel like, for better or worse (and it will be worse,) at least once I walk out of that test, I'll feel relieved not to have to go to school for a while.

I haven't spoken about this on the blog, I don't think. Not surprisingly, either, because there's not much to it. A week ago, I ran into an acquaintance on campus and after catching up a while and about to go our separate ways, she asked whether I was looking to move in the fall. I told her I hadn't given it much thought, but was open to the idea, and she explains she's looking to move downtown (from Etobicoke) and didn't want to live with a stranger.

So I gave her some of my contact information, and I thought I already had hers, but I sent her a couple e-mails and she has yet to respond. The people I've told in my family tend to keep asking if anything's come up for that. At one point it felt super-likely, but with every day I don't hear from her I'm not liking the odds. It feels like I'd be a huge time crunch, but hey, the idea of moving out has been weighing on my mind for months. If I get an opportunity, better believe I'm taking it.

Well, we'll see. Take it as it comes, I suppose.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

01: Blue and yellow is green

I used to dread August. In those young, free, idle days of... well, probably last year I suppose. But obviously I'm mainly thinking of grade school and high school, when those two months of summer went by so fast and you really had to work hard to make something of them, and I really never did.

This year, I welcome it. For one thing, it'll bring an end to the odyssey of summer school. For another, it was already the best summer I ever knew a month ago, so everything since then is really just icing, or gravy, depending on whether you like your metaphors for dessert or a main course.

So I imagine the next month or so will be relatively relaxing. Maybe, hopefully, I'll get some writing done since I won't feel like I'm procrastinating from schoolwork, which I totally am right now.

Although I wouldn't say it's been a "busy" week, there's been plenty of stuff on my mind. I keep finding myself fixating on political situations, which is annoying. I mean, I get annoyed that I care. Used to be I was glad to care, I felt like I stood for something. I've realized since then that if you care about something, you're expected to stand for it, and that's a lot of pressure. I don't need that responsibility, man. Besides, nobody likes being disagreed with. I say this every once in a while -- you can't have a political discussion in this day and age because of the modern aversion to disagreement. Most people have already formed their opinions, and they just shout them at each other. TV is particularly bad at this but you get it all the time in real life too. Alcohol is usually involved.

I mean, hey. I'm a big ole liberal. The way I see it - the oversimplified, deliberately un-nuanced way - is that liberals wanna help people no matter the cost, conservatives wanna balance the books, no matter the repercussions. And someone who subscribes to one viewpoint won't wanna hear the opposite. There are exceptions. There are many exceptions. Oftentimes reasonable people - and I guess this is the mark of a supremely reasonable person - can see the merits of both.

But what the fuck do I know. My marks in Poli-Sci indicate I'm not the most apt for this stuff. I'm just trying to say, these thoughts - which I know are less than sterling - are what have been bounding around my head this last week.

Friday night was a Lebowski night. It was going to be bowling then to the bar, but out of respect for convenience and affordability, we just bought the stuff to make White Russians and played Wii bowling all night. It was chill, although you can't really get drunk drinking White Russians, the milk makes you feel weird.

So it was me, CB, Pat, Adam and Chris, and I guess because Adam was there that's where some of this politics-talk came from, although it had bounced around in my head all week prior to this, like I said.

Saturday night was another thing. Martina, a friend from U of T, was having a meetup for her birthday, and I thought "Okay, well, I haven't seen them (her and the friends associated with her) in months, why not pop by?" Never mind that getting to Toronto in time for things is always an ordeal, let alone staying late enough to make it worthwhile. Or the fact that the main idea of the night was to go out to the club, and man, I am so far from being a club guy you have no idea. No idea! But a night out is a night out and I figure I should at least go to one club in my life so that I can say "Yeah, clubs are lame" and know what I'm talking about.

So after track delays and various stallage, the train rolled into union well after 9:30, and I got to Rosie's place, where I was instructed to meet up, at 10. I was introduced to a bunch of dudes I'd never met and we spent time playing Smash Bros. Unfortunately, I was handicapped due to being stuck with the classic controller, when I'm really only good with the Wiimote and nunchuk. What can I say? I'm used to being able to hit "up" and jump. Fuck that noise.

After video games we watched Dr. Horrible, always a wise choice, and then at around 11 we went out to the club, by now just me, the two girls and one other guy. I want to say his name was Paul but I could be mistaken. Then Martina and I had to wait outside for a while as Rosie went back for her ID. By the time we got in it was midnight. My dreams of getting my money's worth but still leaving on the 1:30 bus were fading. So I hung by the bar and did what any self-respecting man without a guaranteed dance partner does at a club - watched and drank. Not much though, them drinks were expensive.

So. This other guy, Maybe-Paul, was pretty adamant about his anti-dancing stance. Which I can respect. I can't really dance. It doesn't mean I won't dance, but I did resist for a while. Mainly my "dancing" consisted of making spastic, non-rhythmic motions in the general direction of Martina and Rosie. I wasn't drunk enough to attempt to break, which is a relief for everybody. But even with my pathetic display of move-busting, I can't have been the saddest case in there, no sir. Take your pick. There was the tall, stoned Jamaican dude (as I liked to call him, "Jamoker," it's a Scrubs reference, Urban Dictionary it) who creepily approached every female in the place until finally getting a little attention from some curvy Caribbean chick (it was Caribana, after all.) There was the mustache dude who looked to be at least 40, probably drunk/stoned out of his gourd, way out of his element, dancing by himself frantically on anyone who would pass, including security guards. So there was a mix of nubile young women dancing, often with sleazy-looking Caribbean/Asian/white (though far less often) dudes making unsolicited physical overtures, or couples grinding way too publicly for my taste, or wallflowers like me who had nothing going on except the opportunity to deliberately embarrass themselves for comic effect. Clubs are lame. I wouldn't try to pick a girl up at a club, I wouldn't go to a club unless I went in with a girl on my arm, and damn are they an expensive way to not really have fun.

Yeah, I'm a whiny bastard. But you all agree, I'm sure.

That said, I did enjoy myself at a few times, mainly when I was really cutting lose with the "look how bad a dancer I am" shtick, and when they played Word Up by Cameo. Yep.

We left a bit before 3, stopped by Rabba for snacks, then went home to watch Rocky Horror Picture Show, which many people present had not seen (you know you're a first timer when you comment - "Tim Curry's in this?") I hadn't seen it in a few years, but my parents used to love renting it, presumably as a way of passively traumatizing me when I was a kid and severely screwing up perception of normal sexuality. Yep.

So that took us to 6, at which point I had a choice. I was heavily considering just going to Union station, having done the virtual equivalent of T-Dot Loafting (another one to look up on UR) but with something to do. It was generally suggested that I just stick around and sleep a while, and I was too tired to fight (a good sign I needed sleep) so I sprawled out on the floor, the first time I have allowed myself to do so in years, with Possibly-Paul ceding the couch to Martina and opting to spoon with me. It was nice.

No wait, it was just a tad weird.

Wait, I mean it didn't happen! Fuck!

I woke up at about 10:20 and thought "Hm, if I rush, I can make the next train." And so I rushed. You'd better believe I rushed. I pulled the disappearing act, then got to the ground floor in time to watch the streetcar roll by, then said "Hm, I'll go up to Front St." (we were about a block down from Front on Spadina) and as I did this, another street car rolled past. So I rolled my eyes, muttered a silent FML, and started running. And oh lord how I did run. And oh lord how it was necessary.

How necessary was it you ask?

I punched my ticket - it reads "10:43." I made the train just in time to hear "The doors are closing, please stand back." That, friends, was an accomplishment.

That said, it may have been worthwhile to sleep ten more minutes, say a proper goodbye, walk casually to the station and get myself a coffee or something, but hey, who has time to be rational at 10 in the morning on 4 hours sleep? Pshaw!

So that was last night, in a nutshell. Today was recovery day although here I am being a night owl as usual. I had to stay up to watch Entourage, because I have a habit of missing the first airing and gosh darnit if I'm going to miss those guys' wacky adventures.

My last Poli Sci test is this week. I should study. Really.

But we'll deal with that when the time comes.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto