V: Postcards from nowhere in particular

By the time Matt actually left the store last week, it was starting to look a little like this Mr. Show sketch. At first, I was scheduled only to work the Monday night. As that was to be the last shift I was booked to work with him, there was a whole undercurrent of goodbyeness about it. Then the next morning, I got a text at 8:50 asking if I could go in, sicne Matt had been booked to work with Kern, the new guy, on his first shift, and it seemed a bit overwhelming to ask Matt to handle all the typical opening routine on his own while training the new guy.

So I went in, we worked, showed Kern around the store, primed him on the details, got to know him a bit. Said a big goodbye to Matt again. Then the next day, I called again because Dana wanted to switch me a shift, and I ended up talking to him for a while.

Mainly, it was this: I had lent him my copy of Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness. A lot of our conversations in that last week concerned whether he was actually going to return the book. When he got it out from under his bed, there was a big crease in the back, so he figured on replacing it for me. "Matt, don't do it. Don't do that. Seriously. Matt. Don't do it. Listen to me, listen to these words, don't do it, it's fine." "I'm doing it, I'm doing it, I'm doing it. Okay, fine." There are a few inexplicable reasons I didn't want that book replaced. The title of the last entry concerns my feeling of ownership. Some objects aren't even replaceable by exact replicas. That is to say, I want my creased book.

I was walking home from work feeling okay today. I'm not sad about stuff in general, but I was thinking about preparing dinner and contacting people and adjusting to my reverted routine, and suddenly things felt really good. It was very different from the Thursday feeling I described last time. It's the outcome of that.

Saturday was a big day. Back in May, Amanda told me that for my birthday gift, we were going to the Fan Expo. I had mentioned that I didn't really want to go again, but she convinced me that I probably wouldn't mind seeing Stan Lee. Eventually I warmed to the idea. This, despite my natural cynicism that these things never turn out to be as good as they ought to. I wasn't going to "meet" Stan Lee, I'd get a glimpse of him and he'd scrawl his name on some cheap book I brought since I'm not a serious collector, and then I'd wander around the crowd elbowing my way through for no reason in particular for several hours until I got tired and went home.

We were deciding our timeline a few days earlier, and I said that since I was dedicating myself to this "meeting Stan Lee" premise, we would have to go early and get that out of the way quickly. So I got up early (and indeed woke up well before my alarm due to a puzzling dream about journalistic integrity followed by paranoid bitter thoughts about cable news networks) and met Amanda at the train station at 8:30.

I stopped off at the cash machine at Union, Amanda got something to eat, and we headed off for the convention center. We waited in line for about an hour. I had brought along my DHARMA jumpsuit (which mystified Amanda, because not only did I not mention it until earlier that day, but I did so when she was distracted, so she literally had no idea what was happening when I put it on.) I paid good money for that thing and won't get many occasions to wear it again.

We chitchatted with the people next to us in line, and commented on several of the other costumes we saw (many of which recurred throughout the day.) Eventually, we got in, and I was immediately deposited in line for Stan Lee while Amanda went to meet Felicia Day (which I would have liked to have done, but things don't often work out.)

In line for an hour, I thumbed through a Discworld book Amanda lent me (the second one, from 1987) and contemplated the poor decision-making decisions that brought me to this point in my life. Still, before lone there was a line as far behind me as ahead, and growing, so I knew I couldn't leave and expect to get back. I fiddled with my iPod's video function, scheming to get some video footage of "The Man" in addition to the crappy insignificant non-interaction I expected to get.

After an hour, or slightly more, of waiting in line, I got near the front, where I learned autographs cost $40. Well, I was really pot-committed at this point, so there was no reason to back down. Reasonable enough a price. Two years earlier, I had gotten Peter David's autograph, made chit chat with him about She-Hulk and gotten a photo for no cost other than that of the book I had to buy pretty much on the spot so he could sign something.

I was wrong, though. When I got to the front of the line, he asked me what it was I wanted him to sign, and I said it was a reprint of Amazing Fantasy #15, and he made a joke about how cheap I was for bringing such an item, and I said I would have brought my copy of "Just Imagine Stan Lee Creating Superman" if I could have found it, and he patted me on the back and said I reminded him of Martin Goodman, and that if I was interested, I could intern at his company. He gave me his card and told me to call and set something up.

No, don't be retarded, nothing remotely like that happened. I was ushered through by bored, passive-aggressive security guards who wanted to shove someone ahead of me because I hadn't taken the .5 seconds to get me item out of its bag right when I got to the second place in the lineup. He slid it across the table to Stan, and the Man, doing his best to look like he wanted all of us to feel like human beings, signed the thing, and I was sent on my way.

I can't say I'm disappointed, because this is exactly how I imagined it would go down, which is pretty much why I was reluctant to do it. As much as I like the idea of getting close to the man who created Spider-Man, I know that in that situation I'm just some stupid fucker in a long line of stupid fuckers, all of whom need to be placated and sent off.

I couldn't even be arsed to pay the five bucks for the certificate of authenticity, so that reprint isn't going on eBay anytime soon.

Still, I was satisfied, since I knew the deal going in. I met back up with Amanda, and then Vasa and her friends, and we all formed one big group. One of Vasa's friends was dressed as The Doctor (as in, Who) and got many requests for photos, which was cool. We caught wind that there was a dude in an elaborate Dalek costume on the lower floor, so we went down for a photo op. Then since the place was so crowded, it took for-goddamn-ever to get through to the up escalator, as the thing had been stopped up. At this point I quipped, "Times like these, I'm glad you paid for my ticket."

By the time we got back up, it was lunchtime, so we got pizza. In waiting for it, I wandered off to meet up with this girl, Lauren, whom I'd met online. As an artist, she had a booth selling things, and I thought it would be endearing for me to buy things. Her work is actually quite amusing, and maybe some of it I would've bought without knowing her.

The story of our first (and to date only) meet-up is one of those things I wish I'd been active on the blog to discuss. Really, it's good to have time and perspective, because if it went badly afterward I'd feel like a schmuck for being so excited initially. The summary of that day is that we got ice cream and I made jokes about Pokemon, and she appears to be the type of girl who is into that kind of thing.

So Saturday, I bought some of her drawings and engaged her in banter, and went off on my way. After a bit more exploring and a few more purchases (notably an immobile rubber Bret Hart action figure from circa 1985) Amanda and I decided it was time to peace. I was starting to get irritated with the crowd, slash hot and tired slash whatever. We bid Vasa and her crew adieu (she and Amanda seem to have gotten along well enough that they are now suddenly Facebook friends) and got on the train and came home. I spent much of the weekend thinking about the various things I ought to have blogged about over the course of several weeks, not to mention my coming to terms with the sudden absence of one brother.

And today I worked.

I'm looking to get back to my webcomic, Regular Guy. I've got a couple in the queue, but I'd like to have the chapter nearly-done before I start posting them, since it seems unfair otherwise. Then who knows. Maybe school and work will get in the way again -- okay, definitely. -- But still.

Very excited to have a day to myself tomorrow. I gotta clean this place up. But I'll probably just sit around.

Ah, summer. How I'll miss you.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

W: Items and feelings

before you read this post, note that it is the second part of a likely triple post, so keep scrolling until you see something you don't recognize.

Thursday night I was walking home from work thinking about January; this past January. I remember the first Sunday I worked after all the other temps had left the store, and I was suddenly aware of myself as a permanent employee. It being Sunday, it was early in the morning before the store was open, and I was in there with Gus and Matt (or maybe Alan) doing price changes.

The funny feeling came over me, and I found myself sitting in the aisle between A-Z DVD and TV DVD, looking at the barcode stickers in my hand, not really paying attention to which DVD I was looking for. And all this weight crashed down on me at once, best summed up by the phrase, "This is how it's going to be."

No more Cait. No more margin of error or forgiveness over being just a temp. No more deadly Christmas rush or boxing-week chaos. Hell, Chantelle had even gone for three months, as had Alex, another girl I liked seeing. Everyone who was working in the store was, for all practical purposes, my permanent co-worker. What I had known to be the status quo - albeit a chaotic one - was gone, and I was getting an immediate sense of the new one.

After a moment to feel the weight of this, I stood up, and said "Well, that's that," and got on with it. And over the next several months, things stayed the same and gradually changed. Jamie was the first to leave, although I hadn't worked with him since Christmas. His replacement, Sarah, only stayed around for the semester, and Chantelle returned and Andy left and we got Jess.

Around the time Andy left, just shortly after the staff evaluations, the changes started to happen rapidly. Alan transferred over to Dorval, Adam went on paternity leave, the two were replaced by Andrea and Jeff respectively. Then a while after that, after spending a lot of the summer working full-time at Bell while keeping one shift at HMV, Taylor left Bell and transferred to Dorval. And Andrea apparently made such an impression on our regional manager that she's being farmed around to help out with stuff. She'll probably be back someday... but I've heard potentially otherwise.

Matt, I've known was going for months, ever since he started talking to me about U of T, where he'd applied (UTM actually.) This is one I have not generally looked forward to. I wasn't close to Matt initially -- he and Alan were always buddy-buddy to the point where I felt left out when they were around, and I didn't generally know what to make of Matt, since he tends to run to the extreme of sarcastic. But over time, especially after Alan left, we bonded, joked around a lot, found some common ground (although there was a lot we disagreed on, or more accurately, he didn't get about me.) The first night Dana was in was basically a long joke session between me and him, including some header stickers being stuck to him for an hour and a half.

So Thursday night was the first time I'd worked since he left (the day before) and the new guy, Kern, just happened to be in. And I had one of those "Well, this is how it's gonna be" moments at the end of it. Not exciting, and maybe not too depressing, but just... deal with it. The new guy is nice, but I hate having the responsibility of imparting my knowledge to someone. When it was me and the other temps, I could often write it off as being "Oh, I got this, you don't need to know, you'll be gone soon." You'd think I'd be more patient, too, since when I first started at HMV in 2006 for Temping round 1, I was bloody awful. So I should get it, and I'm trying to be accommodating, but it doesn't help that more and more people who know what the shit they're doing are leaving us in short order.

I don't even know who is going to be working during the day at the store during the school year, since that guy has a high school-type schedule, Dana's in school, I'm in school, Jess is in school, Chantelle's gone soon and will also be in school. The benefit to having Matt and Alan around was that they were not in school and so made ideal full-timers. One other guy's been hired and I don't know what his deal is.

So even though this isn't really my problem, I worry about it. I do this sometimes. Saturday morning I woke up alarmingly early, from a dream in which I was lecturing some reporter on journalistic integrity -- which is ironic since that's not something I was known for.

This summer has, yes, seen its share of partings, not the least of which is the current absence in my life of Taylor, my young ward from Pennsylvania, a teenage girl I met on Chatroulette, who is far sharper than she ought to be for her age. We had accumulated a massive quantity of stupid in-jokes and shorthand phrases and then just like that her parents found her Facebook profile and "banned" her from the internet (I know this only through a brief online cameo she made from a handheld device.) I'm sure she'll be back, but I have definitely been missing our talks, which are completely pointless and nonsensical, which is the point.

Derp.

I'm tired tonight, and in fact it's already tomorrow (I delayed finishing this entry overnight) so I'll finish up the story of this past weekend and any other notable blanks of August tomorrow, I think.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

X: Friday is green

Many months earlier in this year, when I was first wrapped up in Hollerado's Record in a Bag, the first CD that had really caught my ear in some time -- save perhaps Joel Plaskett's Three (which took a lot longer to absorb) -- I played it for some of my co-workers at HMV. Adam, the receiver, whom I've since learned is part of a well-regarded local band (with two CDs in the store no less!) told me he liked the music but thought they needed to work on the lyrics. Or maybe it was Alan. I too was under the impression that the CD, while remarkably fun, lost steam about halfway through, after "Americarama." So I took his word for it on the lyrics, but in the months since, I've listened to the songs on this CD time and again, more than 20 times apiece, and while for the most part my assessment remains true, I do believe each individual song contains at least a kernel of greatness, and that the lyrics need not be so dismissed. In fact, there are a number of markers that this band puts more work into its lyrics than any other dozen or so post-punk or poprock bands on the racks, even amongst the supposedly (often rightly so) thoughtful indie bands. There's a roughness to the lyrics, mind, that seems deliberate, and works effectively with their sound.

Specifically, I think of these lines that ring out in the second verse of "On My Own:"

I've got this sweater in my dresser drawer
that I wear when I'm sick
but the winter's finally over
so I won't be needing it...

And though in my case, it's summer that's not-quite-over yet, something about this lyric, which logs the ever-changing ways of the world, hits me right now as I sit on the edge of my last year at U of T.

Eric just went home. He probably hasn't arrived at his doorstep yet. I came home from the FanExpo (more on this later) to find all his stuff piled up rather neatly on the couch (which had of course been his bed for the last two months) ready to go. Over the course of this summer I have expressed irritation, occasionally even to the man himself, at his constant presence. By the end I was sometimes quite open about how glad I was that he was going home, but there was a bittersweetness in this that I had a harder time expressing.

There were times, more than I could count, when I wished I could be alone. Eric was invariably on the couch watching TV -- normally Family Channel, or History (for Pawn Stars) or sometimes Food Network, or at the right time of day, Inside Edition/Access Hollywood. I wouldn't want to go to my room, because that's a really alienating spot. I wouldn't ask him to leave because that's not how I do things, and he wouldn't have anywhere to go. So I got into this old habit of mine of taking long walks in the evening, mostly for coffee. In later weeks, when it would be more common for me to need to be up the next morning, I'd just go to the white store.

The walks usually last an hour, being a roundtrip to one of the nearby, but not necessarily the nearest, Tim Hortons. Usually I listen to music. sometimes I just think, or talk to myself about something I want to be writing, but can't focus on because of Eric, although that logic is not the strongest. As I type this, I kind of miss him, although the TV most certainly did distract me, especially when it was something I did not particularly want to watch. The fact is that I definitely did not do as much writing after he arrived as before, but to lay the blame all on him would be silly.

I've spent exactly one weekend, earlier this summer, without him around, and I was depressed then, albeit not necessarily out of loneliness, more about my own hangups.

But hey, for all the distractions, all the irritations and minor disagreements (we never fought this summer) he was always around. When I didn't want company, I had company, but when I wanted it, I always did. That's family, you know -- it's not always good, but how could I say it's bad? I always had someone to joke around with, someone to muse about the states of various characters on Degrassi (which has run over the last 6 weeks) and watch old TV shows on DVD like Undeclared and Andy Richter Controls the Universe. And Battlestar, less than we should have.

The thing that really gets me is his relationship with Bella. She's a sweet dog with some bad habits. As dogs tend to do, she loved him, and now he'll be away for a long while. He's mentioned that because of this, he'll probably come home more frequently than in previous school years, and I believe it.

For mainly this reason, but also some others, this summer has been different from all previous ones. Eric was around, (which he has been many times before) and I was working, and feeling a lot of pressure, and now it's over, or jsut about over. I mean, fuck, it's August 28th! Where the month went, I have no idea. Actually, I do know, because a lot of it is logged on my Twitter account, although a lot of it is silly nonsense.

It magnifies a problem I'm having with the perception of time as I near my school year. Things I posted at the beginning of the month seem like I just posted them last week or even sooner. Jeez.

And so the summer has begun churning toward its inevitably conclusion. I'm going to write a couple more entries tonight to fill out the stories of August. Some will be more interesting than others. Most won't even be that interesting. I don't know whether September will come and I'll start writing more frequently again... working and being in school, after all, means I have less time to sit around thinking about things.

I like posting, though. Especially now that I no longer have someone who's aware of my every movement (more or less) I'll want to reach out again, the way I used to (even while he was around, indeed, largely while he was so I could vent about him.) I know not as many people read this as used to, but even so I'm pretty okay with my words echoing out into infinity without anyone to hear, just as long as they're getting out there.

More soon.
Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

PS If anyone's curious, the title of this entry comes from the markers we use to denote the day of the week on our deposit envelopes at work. I've had it in my head since last Friday. That's how much crap I've got bottled up.

Y: Another and another and

When I was like 11, around the Christmas of 1998, I was big into the movie Footloose. It was one of the few movies I personally owned on VHS, along with The Breakfast Club, South Park: BLU and Wayne's World 2. To this day I'm not certain whether this means I was stupid for liking a stupid movie about a town where dancing is illegal, or where I was awesome for having a keenly-developed sense of irony.

I say this not out of a desire to share it with the world or as a lead-in to some epic anecdote that in some way relates to Footloose. I say it out of a need to say something. I can't keep bottling my shit up, even my meaningless shit, and if I don't express something, anything, I'm going to keep falling apart inside, which sounds so ridiculously emo it hurts. It's because I'm experiencing a motivational dryspell and if I start throwing random shit out there, it'll loosen me up to let the good stuff flow.

A few weekends ago was my cousin's birthday. One of the little trinkets we got him to go along with DS games and Beyblades was a little 2x2 Rubik's cube. Looking to show off, I attempted to disassemble it and put it back together like I did my own (traditional 3x3 cube.) The problem is, obviously a 2x2 is put together differently, with little wedges that pop out in you pull it apart, and can't be smushed back into place easily. So I effectively broke his new toy. Before he'd even touched it.

He didn't take much notice, mind you: he'd just gotten New Super Mario and Lego Harry Potter for the DS. I still felt like a heel, despite my aunts' assurances it was no big deal. I trekked out to Toys R Us the next day to replace the cube, but it is still sitting on my counter because mom didn't manage to get it to him before they went on vacation. They're on vacation with my grandma, who left her dog here to drive us nuts. In her defense, it isn't Xena that's driving us insane, but Bella, who can't stand evidence of the existence of any other dogs anywhere ever. She's the ultimate solipsist. I think. I'm not sure of the exact dictionary definition of that word. But yeah. Canine Solipsist.

So she goes on long barking jags whenever Xena's around. They have frequent standoffs on the stairs -- not easy because Xena, getting up there in years, can't handled the stairs so well anymore. A few days ago she just fell right down and hurt her leg, and I felt bad, having stood by and watched the whole thing.

Of late I cherish those rare moments the rest of the world isn't all up in my shit.

Rare, rare moments.

My life is inexplicable. I isolate myself and feel miserable. Then the world presents me a situation where I can't get that privacy and it drives me insane. No matter the situation, balance eludes me. But that's a contradiction I think everyone faces.

Sometimes I think of my life as a long-running TV series with occasional cast changes. I'm losing a lot of co-workers in the near future. Thursday night I met a new one, a transfer from Toronto Superstore. We were all speculating on what she might be like. She turned out rather cool, very upbeat, very capable, aside from having to enlighten her on certain procedural differences, as she's now dealing with a whole store rather than just a single section of expertise.

So yeah, when I met her I thought about how the audience of my work-com might react to her replacing Chantelle. Whether Matt will get a replacement I don't know. Taylor's also going to Dorval, so that means I'll soon be the only non-manager who's been at the store since before the summer. Hurm. And when I hung out with Ryan last night, he was on me again about why I don't transfer out and go to Toronto.

Really, no good reason.

Last night, RyLai, Chris and I got together for our first Risk in months. CB was supposed to come by for it, but he was otherwise engaged (baseball game.) We ended up having a rather intense 3-man game that didn't really end, while we watched the 4th season of the Simpsons on DVD. I haven't actually sat down at watched any classic Simpsons in years, because after the 1000th time you don't feel the need, but you know, I still love that show.

At my worst moments, lately, I feel like I'm 17 again. But things are getting better. There's just no telling, however, what's over that hill.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Z: At whatever cost.

I keep getting off track, and that's the truth. There's a lot of nothing going on lately and it's all very distracting. Since there's not much to tell I'll knock off a quick entry and go back to ignoring this blog.

Last weekend was Marti's birthday. I was on the fence about going out for it, because of the effort required and the perceived amount of enjoyment I'd get. Then I thought, shit, I don't get many excuses to get out of the house, and it'd be a shame if my cinnamon adventure were the last visit I had to the city for a while. So I went, and I was glad I did.

I met up with the gang at a Jack Astor's. Much of the early part of the night was spent talking nonsense with Shane, films and school and everything, while I casually doodled a Sewerman (my first in seemingly years) on the table paper in crayon. I caught up with Marti and Rosie, of course, and some of their other acquaintances, a girl who'd just graduated from York, whose boyfriend was in the process of building a large crayon tower on the table. It quickly became a big attraction as waitresses passing by commented and brought more crayons to make the tower higher. It eventually topped out at 50 crayons before falling under the weight of its own hubris or something more logical (physics.)

In the end, though the night was rather brief (I did after all have to get to work the next day, so I ducked out when the party began to relocate itself to a club 'round 11:30 or so.) I then took the worst, longest zone bus trip of my life, with the driver going all the way out to Third Line before dropping me of at the wrong location. Me: "Sixth and Sewell." Driver: "Sewell? Is that McCraney? Sixth and McCraney?" It's right there on the fucking map! Then instead of taking me to the wrong stop he said he would, he went further and wound up letting me off at McCraney and Montclair. The only other passenger was equally unamused so he got off then too. If I'd known what a bad route he'd chart, I'd have saved myself the 65 cents and walked home, gotten there sooner.

The week's been a blur of inactivity. I keep getting my shifts switched around because this young co-worker has summer school and she needs her nights for homework or something, and what am I, gonna say no?

Xena's over for the next couple weeks. She and Bella do not get along. This has made my life an undeterminable amount worse. But hey, if that's my biggest complaint, shit can't be that bad. I'm just not so looking forward to the fall. Well there's a lot of great unknown there.

I spent my shift today removing video game trade & play stickers. Every single game in the store had one of those bad boys, and I removed 'em all with a half hour to spare. Then I recommended a dude buy Memento and The Unforgiven. He's might regret it, but I make no guarantees on my recommendations. I also gave him Collateral and Children of Men to think about. He wanted stuff "like Taxi Driver." He also dripped ice cream on the carpet.

But hey, he was a nice enough guy.

I'm listening to Joel Plaskett's Three. It's nice, earthy music, after being into a fairly hectic trend of my music habits lately. The last CD I bought was Richard Hell's protopunk classic Blank Generation. What a cool record, but it wears on you. Some great tracks on there. Smart punk.

I'm out of stuff. Keep on rockin
-Scotto