Scott Williams Presents

022: I'll make you his

2012-01-22T18:59:00.003-05:00

As anyone who regularly talks to me knows, I don't have a lot going on lately. This is just one of the many reasons I don't let it out on SWP much lately. There's simply not much there. I work and I fret about my writing output, I drink coffee and I listen to music and I write about the music I'm listening to. The music blog is going well. I do have other outlets... Tumblr has been very good to me since I joined over a year ago, largely because of the community of people I've found. But I don't spill my guts there as much as I ever did here. But as I crawl through my 20's, I also have less guts to spill.

The other night I finally got out of my house/rut, braving the cold to go see Martina before she goes off to England for an internship. I considered not-going, despite my sacred Facebook RSVP, because of the inclement weather and generally feeling assy all day. But by the time I got home from school, I hadn't decided not to go. The pizza we ordered got here quickly and I had time to watch a few episodes of Eerie Indiana, which I recently bought, so I took it as a sign that I could go out and actually enjoy myself.

So I ventured out, arriving at the location after 9 PM. I had a few drinks, caught up with the gang. It's always the same collection of random folks, some of whom I know, some of whom I never really talked to. Marti, Rosie and Jamie have always been good at collecting friends, mostly Cinema Studies people, and what appears to be an inordinate number of gay dudes (not that there's anything wrong with that.) I was a bit awkward in catching up, not really wanting to talk about myself... like I've said, I don't have a lot going on and it's getting to the point where it's even embarrassing to embellish on my various projects, such as they are. Jamie gave me a lecture on how I needed to start a writing blog. First I need to start writing, though.

The night went on and I flipped from conversation to conversation around the table and had many periods of silence. Which is nice, because this is a group that understands introversion, even being the three girls that basically forced me to be friends with them back in second year. I also disrupted Charlie's hipster flirt-off (when Philip Glass and Tilda Swinton get name dropped you know what territory you're in) just to be a dick. And because I knew Charlie could take it. And to be a dick. No, I don't know what's wrong with me.

A large portion of the night was an attempt to settle up the bill and move on to another bar, which is tough when you have a giant unwieldy mob to move around. I ended up paying extra just to get us out of there quickly, and to spare some of my broke student friends the pain.

We nearly went to one bar, which was very loud and karaoke-ish, then switched out for a quieter venue, where Shane engaged Paolo in a lengthy lecture on the moral impossibility of basing a film (Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close) around 9/11. Personally, I disagreed but wanted no part of the discussion. The rest of us drank and played what turned out to be a very lame "truth or dare" type game on Rosie's iPhone. Then the others got some Tequila shots and I noticed it was after 1.

I sprinted to the GO station. We were at King past Duncan. It was pretty brutal, but I made it to the last bus of the night in time to more or less catch my breath. I dozed off on the road back to the sound of Tokyo Police Club. I woke up just as we were getting to Oakville Station, and walked home in a snowfall. It was about 2 AM when I got in the door, and spent 2 hours attempting to tidy up, because hey, why not.

The truth is, we're moving in a few months. We're getting the house ready to sell, which is a big job because it is lived-in as fuck. We kinda went to town on it over the years because we assumed it would never come to this, that by the time mom was ready to leave, if it happened, we'd be long gone. Nope.

So, we've been needing to clean the basement. Personally, I have a psychological block on cleaning. That's my problem. When you live in a mess, you get comfortable. I'm not a hoarder, I know what garbage is. It's just a matter of moving it around so it's not so problematic. We've been dragging our feet, but we know it needs to be done. Then there's the fact that every time she says "Clean this up," it makes me want to do it less, because... well, it's a hang up. I'm in my mid-20's and I live with my mom, I'm allowed a few hangups. That all said, I know what needs to be done and I know it needs to be done soon. I just don't wanna be told and I don't want it done for me. I guess I want a chance to prove to myself that it's in my own hands.

So yesterday we spent on a massive cleanup mission, clearing out $21.40 deposit worth of beer, wine and liquor bottles that have been sitting around over the years (the beer regularly goes back, the wine and liquor is what's been sitting around.)

Then tonight there was a whole thing about leaving dishes. I haven't seen her that mad since Eric was having problems. And I understand, we're not the greatest sons. We don't take care of the place as much as we should, keep things as neat as she'd like. She was muttering to herself about how sick she is of cleaning up after us, and I understand and I feel bad, and I apologized, not that she acknowledged.

Last time there was a conflict of this sort of thing was in September when I got back from New York and she had washed my sheets but not put them back, meaning I got to bed at 2 AM (on a work night) after a 12-hour bus ride and had to slip my own fitted sheet back on. And it seems incredibly minor, but it was not what I wanted to see, and I flipped, and I pouted about it for a whole day and balled it up with all my other issues about boundaries. And we had this really bizarre fight where she tried to explain to me why I shouldn't be mad, and I refused to take anything she was saying seriously until I heard to admit guilt, admit that she had done wrong in the situation, that she understood why I was mad. We both walked away from that one mad.

Personally, nowadays I would never take away someone's right to be angry. Back when Occupy was happening, I read a brilliant analogy: You can't tell someone they shouldn't be angry. It's like trying to tell them they're not thirsty. Don't argue, just get them a drink and listen. I admitted to her I did wrong and said sorry. I told her where I was coming from in hopes it would be a mitigating factor. She went to bed mad, I think. Eric surmised her dinner with Ross didn't go well. I think that's possible but I don't jump to conclusions. I was perfectly happy from my New York trip before I found my sheets folded on my bed.

I've got issues, which crop up whenever I'm reminded I still live here, years after I feel like I should have left. I was pretty good at convincing myself it was for the best while I was in university. Now I'm working and comfortable and unhappy about it. I feel like as long as I'm here, there will always be this unresolved bitterness about the situation. That's my issue and it's not logical. There I go making it about me, but this is my blog and it's my perspective you get.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

021: Spread far and wide

2012-01-01T22:57:00.002-05:00

I was a bit down on New Year's. Every so often lately I've gotten mad at myself for my station in life, limitations I perceive myself as having. Observations and magnifications of things I don't like about myself. A couple of nights ago, I remembered in great detail probably the worst single night I had all year, which might actually rank amongst the worst nights I can remember. It was the night we all went out to Monaghan's to say goodbye to Trevor, and the guys were forcing me into situations I wasn't comfortable with and I felt like I wasn't being heard, I was being boxed into this grotesquely negative interaction with this girl who didn't give one damn about my existence, and who I wasn't particularly interested in at the outset. What bothered me about this night was that they were not hearing my objections, that I wasn't into it and didn't wanna play. They were obsessed with trying to help me and it made me feel like a chump. Now really, that's not such a bad problem, it shows people at least care a bit to meddle in my business, even if they're too thick to tell that I don't want their help. That night kinda underlined a lot of things I don't like about myself and about the situations in which I find myself.

You'd think -- or hopefully you wouldn't since you're not reading this, and it's just me -- it would be Cary's birthday, when I once again struggled with my limits and ended up being completely blown off by the end of the night, but that had a few mitigating factors and honestly, got taken to such ridiculous extremes that I felt like at least, if I felt bad that night, I was still left with a bit of a story.

Anyway, it's all self-pity, all woe-is-me, playing the victim. I had some opportunities in 2011 and either I squandered them or I fucked them up or ignored them. Despite an outward failure to reap material rewards for my little efforts, (a handful of dates that went nowhere and the continued sneaking suspicion that everyone around me is just putting up with me) the trend of 2011 has been positive. I noticed by the end of the year that 2011 was the year I seem to have stopped worrying all the goddamn time, which makes sense.

I mean, the first half of the year, I felt like a mess. Stress at work was really magnified by stress at school, starting with the burnout I felt after the holidays, and the shock I felt when I found out I wasn't graduating when I thought I would. I mean, that one hit pretty hard, and rolled up into a ball of angst about myself and the world around me, including certain sociopolitical issues that I took to heart, which just haunted me for months. I don't know, dude, I was a wreck.

This all culminated in an event that pretty well splits the year in half for me, the replacement of Karen as manager by Bev. Honestly, that was a sheer pressure-dropping moment for me. Looking back I don't feel like the same person who was afraid to come into work and see his boss. The guy whose boss constantly felt the need to deliver bad pep talks and guilt trips about my performance. Honestly, I do think I had them coming, but the environment was negative anyway. I'd hesitate to say Karen was the reason for negative feeling, but her presence, the whole dynamic, did not help it. The situation did not make me want to perform my best work, nor that I could really live up to my potential no matter how hard I tried, because I didn't feel like I had it in me or that I really knew what I was. I was lost.

It didn't come all at once. And it wasn't happy ever after, as my recollection of the events from October suggest. But slowly, as I've grown into my own as a responsible person, feeling like I really am doing the best work I can (and getting frequent unsolicited reassurances from the manager) helps put a lot of that negativity behind me, and keep my life in perspective. Finishing school helped: ultimately, the classes I hated myself for having to do were a bit of a good time, although yes, I could've done without needing to do them, I'm happy with the way things worked out.

I'm in a better place right now than when I began last year, or even for a lot of last year. 2011 was the year I evened out some. 2012 will have to be the year things change, somehow or other, maybe not all at once. I do expect to be in a different place in my life in 365 days' time (assuming we make it out of this year alive) and if I'm back here next January telling you "Boy, what a crazy Christmas at the store" I'll probably be miserable about it.

OH God I just cursed myself. I take it back! This job is a wonderful fallback job! I enjoy it and I'm good at it, the co-workers are great, I could totally see myself still here in a year!

(cough cough)

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

020: Snap

2011-12-25T22:31:00.003-05:00

And just like that, there goes the Holiday.

Well, in a sense. Tomorrow's Boxing day, and we begin the rapid tapering off of Holiday stress. Last year, on New Year's eve, I worked, and things were so dead that I went home early for one of the few times in my life.

I got Eric a job at HMV for the season. I had my doubts, but I took a leap of faith, because I knew I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't offered. We're getting on well, but I feel like there was some friction generated with certain co-workers, not because he was not cool to them, but I did feel like there were communicative misfires. And there was one incident where he was almost fired for being late. That was a fun day.

I was thinking earlier about how times have changed, how I'm suddenly really aware of how I've left the stress and insanity of school behind. It's manifested itself in an unexpected way. Now I'm in the store and I just... don't see it the way I used to. I remember last year, my mind reeling all the time, split between places. I felt like shit. Now it's just... my job. I show up, I work, I go home. Nine to five. I do occasionally get stressed, but it's not a falling-apart-at-the-seams, collapse-to-the-floor, get-me-a-drink type of stress, just a light headache, "ugh, what now?" kind.

The past two months have been rather eventful. There was one incredible night where Chantelle and I went to Hamilton and met Joel Plaskett, who is utterly incredible to his fans, even when they geek out at him. It was one of those rare nights where everything went perfectly. We even got home as planned.

Then there was the beginning of December, when I left my iPod at the family gathering (which also went rather better than you'd think, aside from not getting the iPod back nearly as quickly as I should have.) We had a whole issue of family drama that was very rapidly and miraculously put aside and, from all appearances, things just worked out. And of course, the work Christmas party where Chantelle and I had a nice moment reflecting on all that the last two years have brought us.

Christmas was nice enough. I noted to anyone who would listen, this was the first Christmas Eve since I started working here that I didn't take a shift... although re-reading my entry from Christmas Eve 2008, it's different from how I remember, so I guess we must have missed out the Christmas Eve Chinese food that year. But that, and other traditions were in place, including midnight wrapping while drinking and watching Christmas movies. We watched both the Blackadder and Muppets Christmas Carol (which really seemed to his Eric) as well as Cooper's Christmas, a warped Christmas movie we discovered a couple years back, featuring some good Canadian comic actors like Jason Jones and Sam Bee from the Daily Show.

Christmas day began with Eric waking us up early because something had woken him up early and he thought it was 10 when it was 9. So he caused the rest of us to miss an hour of sleep because he couldn't double-check his clock. Anyway, after opening stuff, we went to Dad's for a nice afternoon, talking about old times and times before our times, thinking of Grandma and Granddad and eating grilled cheese. We looked at old Christmas photos and watched ourselves age a decade. In particular, I go from a gawky teenager to a gawky twentysomething. But my skin improves, anyway, and I figure out what to do with my hair a bit.

Soon as we left and got home, it was off to Toronto to have dinner at Aunt Karen's. More gifts, some dinner and playtime with the kids. Cam still hasn't outgrown babysitter, a game where I basically yell at them until they get tired of taking my abuse and want to switch roles. I say this all the time, but I can't wait until they become uninterested teenagers who don't want anything to do with their big cousins.

After some fun with the Christmas Candle Ghost, we said our long goodbyes, then came home to watch Doctor Who. This whole thing has been patently ordinary, compared to other years. It was only two years ago that I woke up on Boxing Day to the news that Eric had drunkenly wandered downtown and left me a rambling message about it.

I don't know how to take any of this anymore. All I have is my uncertainty. I was having stress dreams for a while (being attacked by a customer with a knife, being trapped in another co-worker's nightmare) but they seem to have subsided. Now all I want is to relax. To have a breather and plot out my next move.

Do I have to say it? I miss writing in here regularly. So many things seem to have happened and slipped my mind, my life has less focus than it used to. It's all in my hands, so I don't know what to say. But there's also less to write about and of course way, way less to desire to write it. Which is sad, because the blog has always been a nice way of housekeeping, getting shit in order to get real writing done. On Tumblr, where I generally kick it nowadays (aside from the music blog,) I'm constantly stopping and considering whether anything overly personal is worth sharing. Here, I'm back to not caring because if there's an audience I'm not aware of it and they don't make themselves known.

I'm glad for that. I should come back more often. I feel like I say that every time, but these are the stories I'm left with. This is me.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

019: More time for misery

2011-11-06T22:08:00.002-05:00

Despite the title of this entry, and the events it describes, I don't think the tone of the writing will be overly morose. I only seem to get on here, to write at length about my life anymore, when I feel like I've got something to say, or at any rate have cause to ponder how uneventful my life is. I've been dormant a while, working, head down and going. Status quo. I get really depressed when nothing happens. When stuff does happen, even if it doesn't go so well, I can't help but appreciate it.

This weekend has been crazy. Owing to (having better things to do with my time) I put off getting my whole convocation together, getting tickets, organizing my parents (always difficult) etc etc. It's a nightmare, because, well, it's one of those scenarios where you have to put a lot of time and energy over something you really don't want to do to begin with. Which was sorta supposed to be the benefit to graduating. Hurm.

Add to that, I worked all day yesterday. I was only supposed to work a half day; actually I wasn't supposed to work. Then Chantelle tagged me to switch out for my Thursday, and then Shannon asked me to take the morning instead, and who am I to say no to anything? That's just my character.

It was a busy shift. The holiday shoppers are out. Near as I can figure they're in a literal sense the same people as the regular-season shoppers, but there's already a detectable shift in mood, in attitude. I wouldn't say it was an altogether stressful day, but it was a grim signal of things to come. Still, it proves business is healthy for the time being, our sales tactics are effective.

It was Cary's birthday this weekend. He was unable to get me into his Law School party this year, leading to my first Halloween in many years where I had absolutely nothing going on (and usually, it involved Cary.) It kinda upset me, but it was nobody's fault. It was nice, though, to get the invite out to the birthday. Seemed like a perfectly good trade-off, although for Halloween I always appreciate the built-in icebreaker of a costume.

So, Saturday night, after swinging by home and grabbing my man bag, I jetted to the station. On the ride over I read 90's X-Men comics I had in the bag (don't ask why) and listened to some of the recent music I've reviewed. When I got to Toronto around 9, I made a stop at the only LCBO whose location I know off by heart, at Yonge-Dundas, which took me out of my way. Then I took the subway to Spadina and began a measured search for Cary's place. I wrote down the address and the basic whereabouts, but I hadn't had the foresight to look it up on a map site any more than I'd had the sense to look up a better LCBO location. I had just given up and texted Cary for directions when I happened upon his street. I got through the door at 10.

It was a nice place, full mostly of people who knew each other in the respective ways they knew Cary, whether from law school or previous university. My problem is that, as time goes by, I'm one of the few people Cary knows from high school. So I have to constantly be introduced and reintroduced, and justify my presence by being as interesting and witty as Cary claims I am (I'm not.)

I happen to be a bit boring lately because I've gotten into, I guess, a bit of a rut. "Oh, I work, and I guess I write sometimes, and I live in Oakville." Sometimes I'm good at meeting new people, sometimes I just crumble under the pressure. Lately, the latter seems to be the rule. Add to that, I've been fighting a cold all week, and I was tired from schlepping out there via the roundabout route I took. A couple of my early conversational prospects slipped away. I spent a significant portion of the party leaning against a wall quietly sipping my drink and looking out from behind the iron bars of my mind.

This is not new. This is not news. I need to be drawn out, to be shown I will be listened to, to be given opportunities. I know, it would be totally better if I could just walk in a room and start entertaining the shit out of everybody, but that has never been the case, even on the good days. Lately I've been pretty grim. I remember other parties in the past, at Cary's, or one at RyLai's some years ago when even the friends I came with were getting into their own conversations I couldn't jump into. There were times when I was invited into a conversation only to make a hash of it. That's on me.

There was Vanessa, who was the only other former WOSS kid. We had a decent conversation, catching up and discussing the relative developments of our friends' lives. She brought me into a conversation with another dude by asking if I was dating anyone. I told her no, I was mainly just having a lot of anonymous sex. Very anonymous, like "bag over the head" type sex, no names, no faces, just holes presumed to be vaginas. She asked if I was joking. We didn't really hang out that much in high school. Anyway, I alternated that with exaggerated-yet-very-real talk of how I was certain to die alone, that nobody would ever love me, etc, etc. I laid out some of my observations about online dating when she suggested I try it; it's never stopped me from crawling back eventually, however.

The whole night began to feel severely like a track off the first Arctic Monkeys album around the time we left for a nearby club, the Dance Cave. I told others at the party I was worried about stalagmites, but I was assured it would be fine. As we headed out, one of the girls at the party turned to me and asked if I had been to her house to pre-drink the previous year's Halloween, dressed as Scott Pilgrim. I had. This caught me off guard, because I'm not used to being remembered. Some days I feel like the Silence, that when nobody's looking at me, they can't remember I was ever there. That's just about the saddest, nerdiest thing I've ever said about myself. I love it.

Anyway. I struck up a conversation with this girl on the walk over to the Cave. I remembered her roommate's costume from that year, a Pez dispenser, but she had to remind me of hers: Waldo. I told her that the fact that I didn't remember meant that it was effective. We talked a fair bit more after we got in, but things happened and she disappeared, and I got into kind of a funk. Clubs are not really my scene. I don't like them, they don't like me, I'm not good at them. I'm a verbal guy, when I'm anything. I certainly don't look good on the dancefloor and, over Cary's protests, I couldn't push it out of my head that I was just in the wrong place. Plus all the accidental groping that goes on there. Okay, that's a perk.

The night dragged on and I alternated sessions of brooding in the corner with genuine (fruitless) attempts to enjoy myself. I lost track of the few people I recognized multiple times. I was recognized again, by someone I had a class with waaaaaaay back in first year. She couldn't put her finger on it, but when she said her name it all came back to me. We talked a bit, and I told her this was not my scene. The place itself was kinda neat, the DJ really knew his audience, playing stuff like "Seven Nation Army," "Smells Like Teen Spirit," "Little Lion Man" and "Someday" by the Strokes (as well as "Taken for a Fool") in addition to -- hell, mainly instead of -- traditional dance fare. During one of my attempts to really get into it, I screamed myself hoarse with the crowd doing "Teen Spirit." I haven't sounded this bad since I tried the cinnamon challenge at Neabel's, last year.

Gradually, it dawned on me that Cary & Co had likely already left, which I'll admit, was lame, but the place was, in fairness, really dark and crowded. My main problem with that is that I was specifically trying to keep an eye out for them, and they slipped by. I would have been upset if I didn't find it so funny.

Admittedly, it was not the greatest night of my life. However, it was far from the biggest shitshow I've seen lately, and there were genuinely enjoyable moments. Hell, even the dance cave had its own appeal when I could put out of mind the thoughts of "Nobody wants me here, I don't belong!!" But the comedy of me, out on the streets of Toronto at 2:30 AM -- feeling like 3:30, because it was "Fall Back," and still kinda sick to boot -- trying to find a house I had only just been to that day, unsure if the people I'm looking for are there because Cary's not answering his cell phone... that, I find hilarious, and very... well, this shit just seems to happen to me. I just seem to invite it. At least it amuses me.

I got to the house and rang the doorbell. One of the dudes I'd met earlier in the night answered. I curled up on a couch. I might've been wise to pour myself a drink just to relax me, to put me to sleep, because it was a hard time getting settled. It was comfy, but I didn't have a blanket and it was cold. I ended up slipping my arms in my hoodie and using that as a "blanket."

I pulled the disappearing act the next morning around nine. Back home, I lived through another comedy routine as I tried to return some clothes to the thrift store (turns out I bought ladies jackets, whoops,) but they're not open Sundays.

It's been a strange few days. With this stupid convocation tomorrow it's bound to be a further few strange ones. I got my brother a temp job at the store, I have no idea what I was thinking. Terrible, terrible idea, Scotto.

I should get some rest. There are adventures in the subconscious awaiting me.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

018: Not technically a circle

2011-10-07T22:53:00.002-04:00

Slipping into my old self-hate pants tonight.

Some events last week left me very pissed off for the week, a sinking feeling of bitterness toward others that, as it always does, turns into a dislike of myself. It was an innocent enough night to begin with, a farewell night of drinks for Trevor, leaving us for more hours at a store closer to his house.

It was going okay -- not great, but it was an unwieldy group of people, and Chantelle as always brought her friends along, girls I always always always end up making uncomfortable smalltalk with.

Matt's ladyfriend, a girl I'm also friendly with, showed up, completely independently, with a friend of her own. The guys have all been obsessing lately over monkeying with my non-existent lovelife. I guess my situation is pretty difficult to believe, but when you get me in a situation like that, it gets easier to believe.

I attempted to play along, unenthusiastically. They did a bad job being wingmen, I did a bad job being interesting on my own. If the girl was even aware they were trying, she was not at all willing to go along and I don't blame them. I'm not good in a situation like that, where there's someone there to outshine me, although it occurs to me that, especially of late, there are far too many situations I'm not good in.

By the end of the night, I was mad at them and mad at myself for lacking the qualities that would have made a night like that unnecessary. Of course when I'm drinking I'll take any excuse to get mad at myself (like now.) A week later I came to the realization that I'm too goddamned old to be this bad with women. Which of course is a shame, because I am this bad, and I'm clueless what can be done for a poor creature like me. Well it's my own problem and nobody but me is ever going to get it figured out.

Might in fact be beyond redemption. In any case it's hard to make others like you when you're not all that fond of yourself.

I've gotten kinda boring lately. That's what routine does to you, but on the plus side I don't fret over hypothetical problems the way I used to. I acknowledge they still exist, but I guess I've gotten that good suburban complacency. It's comfort; it's a rut, but it's a good one. For now.

At lunch I started writing again. I bought a notebook specifically to keep with me at work so I could put my lunchbreaks to good use. I mean, good use aside from stuffing myself with sushi. I'm probably gonna get mercury poisoning. See, that's the sort of thing I used to be a lot more worried about. What does that tell you?

Oh yeah, writing. Yes. I've reconfigured my follow-up play once again into a form that -- knock on wood -- might actually work, entertain, and be all the things I want it to be (basically a more ensemble-y version of Half-Past.) Hopefully this one takes. They say you write 1000 pages of shit before you get to the good stuff. What they don't tell you is that after page 1000 the shit doesn't just stop like that.

I took someone's shift for tomorrow. I haven't done that in a while; haven't had to, and long since been on "my own" Mon-Fri 9-5 schedule. I used to get really bitter about taking other peoples' shifts, but she's being really appreciative about it, which is nice.

Boredom and angst.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

017: Lonely sayings

2011-09-22T23:15:00.004-04:00

I don't know how I do it. Or why I do it. Or what I'm doing.

Okay, I borrowed that line from myself, but in my defense, I used it a long time ago, most have forgotten, and I still dig it.

I miss a lot of moments. I was reading old entries,a s I am apt to do (I've got plenty of em.) Sampling random moments from three years ago, Fall '08. Funny how some of those thoughts seem like they just occurred to me yesterday. Amanda and I used to talk and she'd say how perception of time speeds up as you age, and I dreaded knowing that was true and now here we are. I remember early in second year, that awful first day with seven straight hours of class, including a Film Theory class I was in no way set to handle. Eventually I did take Film Theory, and I dug it, with a different professor, after going through Lit theory, which prepared me for it. Things dovetail in University. Everything that rises must converge.

So I was reading these old entries and I wrote in detail about my day, about what happened that day and how I felt about it. Every minute irrelevant detail felt so fresh and clear, and I could put myself back in those days. And I guess that was the point.

Nowadays I don't anymore. Every individual day isn't worth talking about and I don't have the energy to sit down more often and write about it. I imagine putting more worthwhile creative pursuits first and letting SWP fall by the wayside, and yet I was much more creative when I did SWP more often. Output begets output.

Like today, I went to work. Lately, we've been on this weird thing where Trevor and I will come in in the morning, and then the deliveries will start coming and Trevor will receive them and Kyle will show up for four hours (which is a baffling notion in itself,) and then he'll be gone and Trevor won't be done the receiving and I'll be alone on the floor until the evening crew shows up. So I hardly interact with most of the other staff anymore, just Bev, Trevor and Kyle, then I have passing interactions with the others. This will change when the new Assistant Manager (the Assman) gets in next week, which will present its own issues, then we'll lose people and gain people and the circle of life will go on. Two years, I never thought two years. Believe me, believe me, there was a time not all that long ago when I thought my future tenure could be measured in weeks, not months. But let's face it. I've got some atrophying to do yet before I finally get it up to break free.

I went with Eric the other day as he handed out some resumes. He explained how badly he felt the need to recharge after his school experience, which didn't go as well as he'd liked. He spent the summer idling, but now is the time to get going and he knows it. I think he got some good leads, following many of the same paths as I did back when I had to look for work. I hope he gets something, if only because I'd be interested to see what happens when he works.

I was thinking the other day how comfortable I've gotten. This is a good and bad thing. One, it's unprecedented... I'm not stressing out over anything, not running from place to place, dividing my life, worrying about the future, it's mellowed me out. The other, however, is that it obviously breeds stagnation, an unhealthy sort of comfort. The other day dad asked what was new and I said, borderline contemptuously (with a hint of humour and a hint of truth,) nothing, like it would be absurd for something to be actually new with me right now. It was sort of a splash of cold water to myself.

But this period of peace, this interregnum... it's doing me some good.

I sense I will be moving back toward writing soon... maybe it's wishful thinking or maybe Iv need to bootstrap myself into motivation. But it keeps rolling around in my head and if I know me (and I almost do) I can't let that urge stay suppressed forever. Do I force it or wait for the time to feel "right" (if that ever happens?) Hurm. Stupid amateur writer dilemma. Stupid amateur writer.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

New York Part 6: Two Lights

2011-09-18T18:38:00.002-04:00

Or, how I managed to spend the weekend in New York on the Tenth Anniversary of 9/11 and hardly noticed.

I don't want to say it's because I'm shallow, that I don't care, that I wasn't thinking about it before and after. I was. It seems odd to me that someday soon we'll be teaching this to high schoolers, like World War II, JFK and Vietnam. There's probably no way to teach the level of paranoia and uncertainty that afflicted the global consciousness in the aftermath. People kept asking whether I went to Ground Zero or whether I planned it out that way, but I hadn't. It was just a date that worked for Meg, and she hadn't thought of it either. At the party, I didn't think it right to start pressing these New Yorkers for their memories. The thought crossed my mind, but by the time I was talking to them moment passed. It was early in the night and one pointed over the backyard fence at the beams of light from Ground Zero, "Hey, 9/11!" Like it was some fucked up version of a surprise visitor you weren't sure was going to show up.

"You know, this is the last time they're going to light those," someone said. "It costs $800,000 just to light them, (or some incredible figure) and the money was only set to last ten years." A conversation ensued about health care for rescue workers. I didn't say so, but no, none of the Canadians I know envy the American Health Care system.

I left on the 11th. The most I saw was a few streets being blocked off. I got up at 9 and by 10 was on a subway to Manhattan. I stood outside the subway station, hugging Meg and finding no adequate way to really express my thanks for the weekend, simply said "Thank you so much. It was great meeting you." That's all you can say.
Again, here's one of those things I would like to have planned better. Maybe I could've taken an extra day and gotten an overnight bus back. I could have hung out in the city again, seen some of those things I missed. Admittedly, I wouldn't have wanted to drag my bags all around the city again, but when I was planning the trip I wasn't thinking of that. I had only a couple hours to get food and some souvenirs.

I told Meg where I was going and she told me where to change trains. Then when we got to Manhattan the Subway decided it wanted to start hitting local stops (New York train logic again!) so I managed to get off just a couple blocks away from where I was going, the same spot where I was dropped off Friday morning.

Of course, this is one of those cases where what I was doing and what I was supposed to do didn't line up. I thought the bus was leaving from the same spot as it dropped me off, but I was thankfully smart enough to double-check my ticket, and it turns out there was a whole different bus area several blocks over. That could have been embarrassing. After getting my bearings in the city, I found my way to a cafe to grab a sandwich and some Cokes for the road, and dodged into the first gift shop I saw to grab some trinkets: a magnet, keychain and bottle opener, and a t-shirt. I opted for a Brooklyn one. I figured I earned the right to wear it.

On the way home, I took advantage of the Bus' Wi-Fi to check Twitter and Tumblr. Of course everyone was talking about it. Why wouldn't they? It's important. I was reading, later, about the late comedian Bill Hicks, how he would do material about his family and childhood, despite having no real animosity: he picked at the wound to keep it fresh. And with something like 9/11, that applies. It's that whole "Never Forget" thing. I read some really incredible stories about the human spirit and, if not always heroism, at least perseverance. I didn't have any of that, of course. I was just living a struggle for normalcy.

I was 14 at the time it happened. It was my second week of high school. Imagine that. You're already uncertain enough about the future and then this thing happens without any precedent and your entire track of what you thought life was gonna be like -- which you barely had any concept of already -- gets switched to this other course. And I'm up here in Canada, and we felt it. Like everyone, we had the same struggle to process it. I got to class and my drama teacher, Mr. Rosser, sat down with us and in a very serious hushed tone, sat with us and told us about this thing that just happened, and nobody was sure exactly what it meant yet. I remember being in North Bay visiting my Grandparents and Uncle and Aunt, a month later for Thanksgiving. I was alone in the car alone with my dad and winter had come on early that year, (well, in the North anyhow) and we were in his 1991 Buick Century driving around the backroads toward Kirkland Lake looking for something to do, and the only radio station we got was CBC and there was this very stern-sounding news announcer talking matter-of-factly about how the jets were taking off for Kabul, and it was so fucked up and heavy.

Between the two moments, my grandparents had been on vacation to Las Vegas. They were constant travelers. The main topic of conversation was how quickly things had changed, how difficult security was, of course. That was the lens through which we viewed the whole thing: how did everyday life change? What was now different? Not, are we in danger, will they attack again, just, how long does it take to get on a plane? Of course. I learned later in journalism, local impact is always important, even if it should be dwarfed by the larger story. Driving away from the hotel/restaurant that night, my dad and his girlfriend discussed how off Grandma seemed that night, she seemed very tired, compared to how ably she usually dominated every conversation. Maybe she was showing her age. We found out not long after that she had cancer. They never traveled again.

They gave her a very conservative estimate and she outlived it for two good years. Unlike certain other relatives, I don't really remember the last time I saw her. It was one of those cases where you weren't sure it was going to be the last time. I remember the morning she died. The night before I had acted in a play I had written (as a group, but I was the dominating creative force) for my Grade 12 Drama final project. It went really well. I knew immediately the next morning what had happened, I recognized my dad's knock on my door, because although he didn't live with us I just knew his knock, and I knew the only possible reason he could be there at that time.

It was January. A few months later, Mr. Rosser was organizing a trip to New York for all the drama students. I had initially declined, didn't give it a thought, because I wasn't sure how to pay for it, I wasn't that close to anyone else who was going. Unfortunately, as the trip approached, I became very much involved with the drama kids, and it was sorta lame that I hadn't even tried to go on the trip when it was time to sign up back in the fall.

Then at Easter, when we visited North Bay again, Grandad dropped an envelope in all of our laps. Grandma had left us each a certain amount of money. I didn't know what to do with mine until I caught wind that there was a cancellation on the New York trip. And that's how I ended up taking my first extended trip outside the country. So all along, there's been this strange connection between that side of my family and the city. At the wedding last weekend, my Grandad's cousin Mary, one of the few we have left from England, talked about how jealous she was that my brother and I were going: her husband, Ron, who has the same relationship with her as my Grandad did with my Grandma (he barely gets a word in edgewise, although when he does he's a bit more sarcastic than my Grandad was,) wouldn't go.

This isn't a particularly inspiring or meaningful story, but I guess what it means to me is the way it's become part of our life, sewn into the fabric of our experience. The way our lives have long since rebuilt themselves secretly around it.
As we pulled out of the city toward the Lincoln Tunnel, I turned my iPod to the Strokes' Is This It, to see me off from New York. The title track of the album is cynical, weary, sarcastic and skeptical, but the answer I came up with as I got a last look at the skyline was, "Yes, and I'm glad I got this much."

Twelve hours later, I was back in Toronto, making my way to Union Station from Yonge and Dundas. I thought about how strange Toronto now felt, because I was quickly on a street by myself. Well, just me and some crackhead banging furiously on windows.

Toronto: It's very clean.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

New York Part 5: We're All Really Confused

2011-09-18T18:11:00.002-04:00

Let me take a second to express even more gratitude to Alex and Meggo for helping me out this weekend. They were taking as much of a chance as I was, because who even knows how accurate these words on this site are to what I'm actually like. Even I don't know what I'm like. A lot of the time I was quiet, but a lot of that was because those two girls, no joke, have such a bond that when they get going all you can really do is watch. And here I am a spectator in their city.

But they kept saying, thank God, we were worried you'd be weird or something. So my main concern was whether I would live up to the hype. I told Alex I was trying to be the "best version" of myself, which is different from lying, because it's me, just minus whatever I don't wanna be. They asked if they should call me Scott now, but to them I'm Scotto.

After "brunch" -- really just lunch because the restaurant's brunch menu was only Sundays -- Alex had to split for a hair appointment and Meg and I went to Coney island. When I first started talking to her about "So what can I do when I'm down there?" She listed a lot of things, all of which interested me, but having to pick and choose I put Coney on top of my list. I was worried it was just some lame attraction that New Yorkers don't really care about, but everyone I talked to was really enthused that we went.

It reminded me of the CNE (Canadian National Exhibition, or the Ex,) because it has that old school midway atmosphere. I haven't been to the Ex in years because they charge wicked fucking admission, whereas Coney, you just load up a card with credits, and the credits needed per ride varies. And the Ferris Wheel takes cash. The other thing about the Ex is that it's only open for about two weeks at the end of August, meaning it's constantly full, and its mere existence is a reminder that summer is ending. The fact that it was September meant I could pay for a ride on the Cyclone and be seated in the span of minutes.

On the Ferris Wheel I mentioned my favourite book was about a serial killer in the Chicago World's Fair, which was where they built the first Ferris Wheel. They invented it to be the American equivalent of the Eiffel Tower, which has been the symbol of the recent Paris World's Fair. Imagine being the fist person to get on this fucking giant wheel. And Chicago's windy as hell, of course, so everyone's like "Is this thing gonna blow over and kill everyone or what?" But it turns out the designer, George Ferris, was not an idiot. I realize saying shit like that makes me sound like Ted from How I Met Your Mother, but that's how I am. Look, these posts are climbing up towards 6,000 words. I'm a wordy guy. I'm also interested in the way things come back and overlap. The next day when I was on my way to the bus, I passed by the Flatiron building, which was designed by Daniel Burnham, who designed the Chicago World Fair's White City.

Learning can be fun!

As we left, we passed by all the boardwalk games. Carnies kept offering to let me have a turn failing at their games. "Win or lose, the lady gets a prize!" I turned to her, and said, mock-enthusiastically, "Hear that? Win or lose!" "Well that's good," she replied, "Because with those things, you'll always lose." I think maybe the real prize was knowing she wasn't hosting a dude that would throw money away on rigged games to win shitty stuffed animals. Ever see Adventureland? "Nobody wins a giant-ass panda." The hat is glued on.

Coney was fun, but I might've thought twice if I knew getting back was gonna be an ordeal. I'm used to very basic public transit (like I said: the green line, the yellow line.) New York's is intricate, and apparently governed by insane troll logic when it comes to service changes. So although we could get a subway out there, we had to take a bus back. It uh... was not fun. It might've been a good time to get back to talking like people, but I think we were both pretty low energy. You spend a whole weekend with people, it happens. We eventually got back to Brooklyn and napped. Well, she napped, I read Cracked and ate leftovers from my backpack.
Then there was this party. The one I'd been coached on how to lie for. We stopped off for beer and headed up to this random neighborhood that looked vaguely like many I'd known in Toronto, with the downstairs and upstairs houses. We wait outside for a while, and I laugh to myself. "They do know I'm coming right?" Yes.

So we get in and everyone takes turns greeting this random Canadian dude Meg is pulling around. Typical responses included: "Toronto? I've been to Montreal" and "Toronto? It's very clean up there." One guy had been to Kingston of all places, on a camping trip. And some place so small I'd never even heard of it. "What have you done so far? How do you like New York?" etc etc. You worry about hostile or at best indifferent locals, but they were pretty enthused. Maybe because I had Meggo's approval. For a while I melted in the background drinking quietly, getting a feel for the atmosphere. There was some talk of politics, which I opted not to join in, because when you're in a foreign land the last thing you wanna do is argue with the locals about their politicians. Although at one point during the conversation, a girl turned to me and asked "What do you guys all think of us up there?" I smiled and answered cryptically, "We're all... very confused by you." That got a laugh: I think they got it.

I didn't mind fielding questions about my home and native land, as best I could. Over Lunch they asked "Hey, you've got free health care, right? What's that like?" I showed them my Health Card. "Haha, it's like a credit card for the doctor! Nice picture, too." Also, "So do you speak French?" French up here is like Spanish down there. You have to learn it from grade 4 to 9, then it's optional. I read it better than I speak it. There are French Immersion schools where classes are mostly taught in French.

There was talk of accents. Someone said the way I said "About" was very Canadian, which isn't quite true. The stereotypical Canadian accent pronounces it more like "A-boat," which I don't do as broadly as some people I know, especially from Northern areas. I do say "Sore-y" instead of "Sar-ry," though, for "Sorry." By the end of the night, I was explaining how I sometimes throw on a British accent at work to fuck with people. Another guy did his Liverpool, I did my generic. They challenged me to do Brooklyn. It needs work. One person, I noted, had a very mild, nondescript accent. Sorta midwestern amidst the sea of Brooklyners.

If I were writing comedy, or like a heartwarming sitcom, the whole scheme of lying would have been blown when I left a thread hanging and her friends pulled it apart, only to reveal the truth, with them being accepting after all and everyone learning a lesson about trusting each other. That wasn't likely to happen. The lie went off more or less without a hitch, except one guy who pressed for a bit more details. My plan was to deflect by saying I really didn't know the whole story, just that my mom went back a ways with Meg's, and that came into play when I decided I wanted to visit. It's flimsy, but I tried to sell it, then change the subject. Fortunately, by this point, I was quite inebriated and ready to go from quiet Canadian dude to preachy music geek, making declarations about certain bands' underrated catalogues... post-Pinkerton Weezer as my leading example. I don't know why, I don't tend to get so fixated on it in my normal life, but here was a chance to declare my overall reviewing philosophy. I talked long and loud about music with this one guy but aside from the Weezer thing I can't remember at all what was said. There was this other girl in on the conversation, and you know me, always eager to chat up the girls. I even passed up an opportunity to go inside with the ones who brought me to keep going, until inevitably the word "boyfriend" came up and I got dismayed. That's me. For whatever reason, I ended up talking with some other girl at the end of the night about sports. I don't really give a shit about sports, but when you're out of town, you find yourself calling up every scrap of available conversation. I like to go to parties where I only know one or two people. Like I said, any random thing could happen.

Beer after beer led us to the end of the night. A game of flip cup happened. The girls were really excited, and I was drafted despite being a rookie. I picked it up quickly. It's not rocket surgery. There was dancing and the girl whose birthday it was put on a playlist of Britney Spears and Black Eyed Peas, and I told the girls "If you're curious what my job is like, it's a 6-hour loop of this music." They expressed sympathy. It was an exaggeration, but it used to feel like that.
It was just so weird and cool that I happened to end up in New York City at this random-ass party like so many I've ever been to before. I guess they're not really used to backyards in Brooklyn, so they were weirded out by the constant sound of crickets. The night ended with me chucking a twenty at a cabbie and collapsing again on the air mattress, not bothering to correctly set the fixed sheet. Fixed sheets suck.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

New York Part 4: A Liar and a Secret Keeper

2011-09-18T18:10:00.001-04:00

I reached the threshold of the bar where I was to meet Meg and Alex promptly at 5:30. I saw them immediately through the window. I froze. Suddenly this was real. This was happening in my life. In the past few months I have met a number of people who were previously nothing to me but words and pictures over the internet, but this was the most important. It hit me like a sockful of nickels that this was it.

Almost immediately, after the welcoming hugs and "Holy shit we're really here aren't we?" I excused myself. Heatstroke and nerves were knotting my stomach up, and I hadn't used the toilet in what felt like 48 hours. I felt dried up and awful. Fortunately, there is beer in the world.

Some words echoed in my ears from months ago. "Here's what I don't understand about you," my co-worker said. "You're really charming..." That wasn't the end of the thought but that was all she said. She implied that I should have no trouble with women based on how easily I talk and joke around with customers and befriend people. But I have this weird double life where I sit quietly in my mind and overthink every possible action and end up doing nothing. It seems antisocial and introverted to everyone and it's been a problem in my life. But nudge me, show some interest, make me think you wanna hear what I have to say, and I'll talk my face off.

When I initially told that anecdote on Tumblr, Alex and Meg speculated she was probably indicating she was interested in me. I knew better and in fact much later found out she started dating another co-worker. They actually never told me directly, and when they're both around I act like I don't know. If they ever do tell me, I plan on acting oblivious. There's at least one photo of them kissing on Facebook, but I didn't see it until a further co-worker pointed it out.

After taking a deep breath and reminding myself that it's not really all that hard to be that Scotto, I ran some water through my hair and rejoined my friends. I ordered a Stella and soon enough I did become that Scotto. We were quickly talking like we'd known each other for years. They congratulated me on wearing Chucks instead of some weird Canadian shoes (?) and on the fact that my hair was naturally doing its flippy-uppy thing rather than being something I spent time styling, and just generally not being a weirdo like they feared. They told me stuff I hadn't gleaned -- or they wouldn't have mentioned -- on Tumblr. I responded by sharing some comparable, outrageous stories. They referred to something I said before the trip: I'm a liar and a secret-keeper and I'm awful but it works.

This came to me when I was reflecting on an experience I had the weekend before, at my cousin's wedding. I was talking to this girl and she mentioned the guy she was seeing and how it wasn't serious. She then asked where "my girlfriend" was, and instead of telling the truth -- that I don't really date all that consistently -- I said we had just broken up, that this nonexistent girl had moved away and ultimately we had different goals in life. When I said that, she immediately came out with the sympathy and understanding, "That's so true, it's impossible to stay with someone if you don't have that."

I write fiction. I used to act and do improv. I write English papers and I work customer service/sales. What all this means is, I'm quite comfortable lying to someone's face if it suits me. I'm not sinister, but I weave my own narrative just to get around the awkwardness of the truth. That, it turned out, was going to be important.

Meg came out with it. One of their friends was having a birthday the next night, a backyard BBQ. They'd tear her a new one if they knew she was playing host to some random dude she'd never met, from the Internet of all evil places. I was to play a character. My mom was friends with her mom, and I hadn't met Alex. "Can you do that?"
I said yesterday you never know what's going to come at you in life. You have to deal with it, adapt and let it happen. "Yeah, sure." I said. "I'm down."

After a few drinks we took the subway to Brooklyn. Toronto kept coming back to me in weird ways. I'd see neighborhoods and buildings that would remind me of the Annex or downtown. I explained that Toronto's subway is only two lines, the yellow and green (Alex correctly guessed) and the rest is buses and streetcars and walking. A woman on the platform overheard. "Excuse me, are you talking about Toronto? I'm from there!"

She and Alex started talking and Meg and I started talking so I got distracted. The Torontonian lady asked where in Toronto I lived and I admitted, embarrassedly, it was Oakville, which has a reputation for rich snobbery (which my high school shows was not universal.) I went to U of T, but I commuted. The lady tried to explain it to Alex and Meg in local terms. When she left, Alex joked (I think) that I was rude to the lady because I wasn't really into the conversation.

We got to the apartment and drank and hung out and had pizza. They played Sufjan Stevens and I played them some Joel Plaskett, ("Through & Through & Through") which they seemed to enjoy if they caught it. I told them Abby liked him. After that, Meg started fiddling with my iPod and happened to land on the second half of Arcade Fire's Funeral album. I found it so odd she'd pick that, my recent fascination and the very CD I had briefly discussed with Yara the random London girl earlier that afternoon. I decided Arcade Fire is one of those things, like Arrested Development, if you want to make a friend, you mention you like it, and either they will too, or they won't and you won't want to be their friend as much. Alex rocked out to "Ready to Start." We went out a while, but I was so dead from a night of travel, a day of wandering, and an evening of drinking, that I basically passed out on the Pac-Man table. Still, when we got home, I had the presence of mind to plug in my phone and pop some of the Advil I brought for my teeth to prevent hangover.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

New York Part 3: Streets and Avenues

2011-09-18T18:07:00.001-04:00

I got off the bus at about 10 AM, two hours later than expected but not really caring. I took a moment to stand on a street corner and really take in the fact that I was here, breathing the air of a different city for the first time in years.
I was hungry.

That first time in Grade 12, when we stepped off the bus, my friend pulled me aside as everyone was rushing to the nearest familiar fast food place. "We didn't come all this way to eat Wendy's." No, sir. We went and found some random corner deli to eat in. My brother Eric, the one who stayed home, echoed similar statements, not to eat in familiar places if it was avoidable. I'm not saying I ate like a king while I was down there. The first place I went was a random breakfast spot that was not that different from what you might see in Toronto. But I deliberately did not eat at the Burger King/Gas Station outside of Scranton three hours earlier, so I had to eat quick. I needed to unfold my map and get my bearings.

In the interest of not unfolding a giant goddamned map every fifteen minutes, I located the fold where my dropoff location was and staked out a territory between there (7th Avenue & 29th St) and Central Park on the other side of the fold. Meg had told me what bar we'd be meeting at, so I plotted out a route to it on the way.

Now, I could have planned this out better. I had no agenda and a whole city as my playground. When you're in a new city, you wander. Just be sure you're not wandering into the wrong neighbourhood. Luckily, I was in tourist central. I was too stupid to take her up on her offer to hold onto my bags, so here's me wandering around Midtown Manhattan with a backpack (full of precious reading material for the road) and sports bag (full of more clothes than I probably needed) on an increasingly hot late summer day just gawking at everything and trying to decide what I actually wanted to do. It was like the ride over, when I could hardly decide what to listen to, presented with all my options. My trip was on shuffle.

Incidentally, New York's grid layout is a frigging gift from the heavens for this sort of thing. If you were new to Toronto and I said "You're at Bloor and Avenue, you need to meet me on College and Bathurst," you'd be taking your map out over and over. In New York: You're on 7th and you need to be on 5th. Traveling as subtraction.

I roamed through Times Square and met with a hustler who quick-changed me out of a few bucks. I didn't tell this story to Alex & Meggo because it was embarrassing as hell. I was right off the bus -- and looked it -- and perfectly willing to stop and chat anyone who'd shove something into my hands. "Hey, I got this CD. Show some love, anything you got. Where you from? Toronto? Shit man, I love Montreal. Here, let me autograph this for you. You got a ten?" I make the mistake of opening my wallet, fat with tourist moneys. More CDs fly into my palm. "Yo, you gotta show them some love, too." Fuck! "Gimme that twenty, I'll give you ten, you give me that other twenty..." Look, I didn't walk away and only realize hours later "Wait a minute..." I'm handling money all day. I know my shit. "Hey, um," I say like it's an innocent mistake, "One of those guys didn't give me the right change." "What?" The first guy says like a seriously-concerned quality assurance manager. "Here, let me go talk to him." They huddle up. I have very little hope of actually seeing a cent returned and I know it. He comes back. "He says he didn't." That's my cue to walk away, admitting defeat. There was this episode of NewsRadio where Jimmy was obsessed with getting back at some hustlers who rolled him at Three Card Monte. I may be a pavement-pounding Torontonian at home, but here I'm a wide-eyed suburban tourist. I fell for it. Have a nice life, enjoy a few extra drinks on me.

Grumbling about this experience, I tromp away from Times Square and head for the park. If I'd known it was my best chance, I'd have made for the Empire State Building and gotten that out of the way.

I just looked it up on Google maps.. A direct route from my dropoff the Central Park is about 2 miles. During the school year, when I had time, that was about the distance I walked from the train station to campus in maybe 40 minutes. Except there it was the "Head down, keep moving" type of walking, and this was the "Gawk at everything, watch your step" type of walking. So it probably took an hour or more. When I saw the trees, I thought "Cool, a place to relax."

In the park, there's a small stretch of lawn right by the south entrance where I sat to unfold my small part of map, to rest my luggage a while, and catch my breath. A stone's throw away is a female body sprawled out on its belly, face shaded by a sun hat, nose in a book. She's clad only in bikini bottoms, the straps of her top unfastened beneath her. I don't know if it's ever come across on this blog but I'm rather an enthusiast when it comes to breasts. I gawk a moment before realizing she's kind of old and I'm a huge perv.

I move over to a nearby bench where, of course, there's a more age-appropriate female fiddling with an MTA route map. "Awesome," I think, "Hot lady tourist." I sit down with my bags next to me, enjoy the view (of the park, not the old lady or the young one.) I notice the girl turn behind us and snicker. I turn and see the elderly woman sitting up fastening her top.

"Aw, man," I say out loud in my inimitable Scotto way, "You mean I missed that old lady's nipples?" I have no idea who would say such a thing to a complete stranger, except of course me. When you can, you test people.

"It's actually rather jarring," she says in a difficult-to-define accent, "The progression of age." She indicates a young man and an older one sitting shirtless behind the older lady. We have a laugh and I ask where she's from. "England. Can't you tell from the accent?" I explain that, of late, I've had difficulty telling British accents from Australians and New Zealanders. I've made a few embarrassing failed guesses at work. Her name was Yara, a Syrian name.

I tell her I'm from Toronto. She says she'd been staying with friends in Montreal and spent a day in Toronto recently, praising it. She visited during Buskerfest. I didn't go, but I don't explain that it's because I live in the suburbs. She asks whether I've been to London and I say no but it's on the list. I've got family in the north of England. "Whereabouts?" "County Durham." "Oh, that is North." Well yeah. "Lovely country up there." We compare notes on our trips and ask the usual questions you do when you're meeting someone for the first time: what do you do? She's a law student, I'm a globetrotting investigative journalist and masked vigilante. Or I work in a CD store. I actually mention which store, because she's British and she knows the chain. Another question, "what do you think of the city?" She said it was making her appreciate London. Not because it was so much better or worse, but I surmised the differences helped remind her what she loved about her city. The same was holding true for me. Toronto is New York miniaturized and every few blocks Toronto came back to me some way or another.

She asks what sort of music I'm into, and I cite Arcade Fire as my most recent interest. She gasps and says "Thank you! You're the first Canadian I've spoken to who knows them." I find that odd, particularly as they're considered a Canadian band. Most of my friends knew of them years before I got into them. Maybe she knows the wrong Canadians.

She mentions she's thinking of going to the art museum. I say that was on my list of possible activities. I had discussed either MOMA or the Natural History Museum with Meggo and still hadn't decided as of this random conversation. I knew MOMA was nearby, so I asked if she'd come along. We began to walk. When we arrived, she realized we'd been talking about two different museums. She'd already been to this one. She said I should go and enjoy it and she'd go back to the park and read, nice meeting you. Privately I wondered if it was because, during our conversation, I mentioned how I got scammed in Times Square, and she wondered aloud if I was maybe trying to grift her somehow. I tried to joke my way out of it but all of a sudden I felt very sketchy, so when she opted to get away, I let her go instead of saying "Wait, I can go to the other museum."

I should note at this point my bags, which felt perfectly fine when I left the house, now appeared to be full of cinder blocks. The other museums, I now know from checking the maps, were in a location known as "Very fucking far to walk" when you're schlepping such cargo. So I wasn't too eager to chase after her. I was at the MOMA. If nothing else, they had baggage check.

So there's me wandering the Museum of Modern Art just because it means I can put my bags down. Last time I came, we did MOMA, Modern Art wasn't my thing. I would look at a Jackson Pollock and think "Fuck, anyone could do that." Immature. In University, Modernism and Postmodernism were explained a bit more clearly to me. Modernism came in when Photography began to dominate people's perception of real, and acts as a counter by presenting things that cannot by depicted by photography. Splatters of paint, designs, lines and shapes. The painting is a thing for itself, not a recreation or even an interpretation (Monet, Van Gogh,) and Postmodernism is when we understand the world through shared reference points (hence: cans of soup, comic books, satire.) Maybe I'm no art scholar and maybe I don't even know what I'm talking about now, but I at least have a frame of reference now. That doesn't mean I didn't think some of it was silly. I like art, but mainly as a friend.

I took pictures of paintings and I took pictures of people looking at paintings. I took pictures out the building's windows and I took a picture of the gift shop because I figured that was as good as spending money there.

After an hour or so of wandering through exhibits -- including an elaborate installation called "Sum of Days" where you wander through a path of thin white drapes while speakers play jungle sounds -- I decided it was time to man up and get myself back on the street. I picked up my bags (maybe I should have left them and gone and come back) and headed back out. My feet took me back to the park, because my thought process goes something like "Maybe I'll see that girl again." She vaguely alluded she'd be headed back to the park but I had no illusions she wasn't already long gone.

From the park I reversed course, found a small diner to eat and enjoy a Coca-Cola (unspeakably refreshing under these conditions.) When I'd said I was hoping to go to the Empire State Building, Yara mentioned she'd heard Rockefeller Center had an even better view. I went there but was running low on time so I decided not to go up. I just sat around until it was finally time to meet Alex and Meg.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

New York Part 2: Between Here and There

2011-09-18T18:05:00.001-04:00

I took the Bus to New York City. It was a strange impulse. I could've flown, not expensively, from Buffalo. That one time I went in high school we took the bus and I didn't find it completely awful, although I couldn't sleep on the overnight trip the way back. So the bus had familiarity. I spoke with one of my brothers later (the one who didn't go) that it was a balancing act of time, money, convenience and comfort. Next time I go I might fly.

But I figured, the travel is part of the trip. By taking an overnight bus there I avoid getting up early the next day and finding my way to an airport and devoting a whole day to travel. If I play it smart I'm on easy street: put my bags on the bus, stare out the window for 11 hours, nod off if I'm lucky, and then suddenly I'm at my destination.

The last time I took the overnight bus, when I was on my trip in high school, I was keeping a journal. I was in a writer's craft class and we had to do three a week and I was charged with keeping track of my thoughts on the trip since I wouldn't be in class. Except I had no time at the end of each day to sit down and write, so I did it all on the bus back, in increasingly shaky, sleep deprived scrawl and disjointed rambling prose (even worse than this!) I was keeping a blog at the time, but I skipped blogging about it, so now that scatterbrained, illegible journal is my only written record of that first trip. And I'm notorious for my bad memory even of my own life. At least, the bits I don't write down.

I didn't intend to sleep on the ride over. Not soundly, not all the way. I wasn't going to take a pill and drift off by any means. I wanted to savor it. To test myself. To crawl into this dark corner with a book and some music and trance out. I haven't had a lot of time lately to be alone with my music. I didn't listen to anything twice while I was down there, except one CD I intend to review soon.

If I was writing a comedy article, I'd say here's where things went all wrong. My iPod wasn't charged, my seatmate was a fat Albanian who wanted to talk and share his goulash. The bus broke down and I had to help push. Then my coffee caught up with me and I had to actually use the toilet on the bus!! Hilarious over-the-top Zack Galafianakis-type disasters.

But no. It was as mellow and serene as I could ever imagine. I read. I listened to quiet, darkened music apt for the setting. I stared blankly out the window. I wrote bad poetry on my new phone. I even slept a bit.

There's this thing called quantum entanglement or something (I just Wiki'd that phrase and found something unrelated, so I don't know.) Whatever it is, it's a theory, probably not very scientific but what do I know, that any two objects that have interacted have that much chance of interacting again. A woman saves a child's life, that child grows up to save hers: true story, according to William Shatner's show.

It's late. We've crossed the border and I'm done using the bus' WiFi to post on Facebook about how I'm somewhere in the darkness. At the Buffalo airport people get on. The seat next to me had been unoccupied. A couple boards, and can only find seats apart. I don't want to go sit next to one of the other people already there, so they have to split up. The girl sits next to me, her boyfriend a row up across the aisle.

As soon as we get moving again, she nods off. She has a neck pillow but she isn't using it. She's thin, her neck is slender and angled away from me. You can probably surmise from my posts -- sad as it is to be admitting it this way -- I haven't been near a sleeping woman in a ridiculously long time. I just enjoy the sight. Every so often she slopes inward toward me and my mind thinks it's an overture, but she wakes up and corrects herself. At one point I nodded off and woke up, noticed we had sloped in together and I think, how about that? My body's better off without me. By this point she was using the neck pillow so I was less interested in looking, because that's a bit less sexy, isn't it? Plush animal wrapped around your neck.

We barely said a word except when she sneezed and I said gesundheit. People like it when someone says gesundheit. It's a little less godly than "bless you." Funny word. If you take the time to say it, it's charming.

Finally, after one stop, people shifted and a pair of seats opened up. We shared a laugh at the awkwardness of napping next to a total stranger for hours on end before she moved over with her guy. The two of us could've done a lot worse. I was happy to have a bit more leg room after that. It was about 6 AM on Friday and we were at a gas station outside Scranton. I didn't buy anything to eat, only a map of the 5 boroughs because I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get Google Maps on my fancy new phone down there and didn't want to have to bother.

Sunday morning I am finally boarding my bus back to Toronto. I get on sooner than I had before and have virtually my pick of seats. I choose one a row up from where I'd been sitting. It was on the upper level of the double decker bus, overlooking the back stairs, meaning I had the advantage now of not sitting behind someone. A kind of bonus legroom.

As others board, I peer over the railing and notice, right in the row in my eyeline, is a vaguely familiar looking back-of-a-guy's-head. And sitting next to him is a cute, thin girl with glasses and a neck pillow. They could've been sitting anywhere on the lower level and I would not have noticed them. Until, I guess, we got off at a rest stop. Two and a half days is such a strange duration to be in New York: more than a weekend, less than a vacation. Reappearance seems unlikely, but there they were.

We got off at the rest stop and they were ahead of me in line for coffee. I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and say "Hey, remember when we slept together?" But I decided to leave well enough alone. Maybe they saw me. Maybe not. Best case scenario I say something and they offer a three-way, but I just wasn't up for it after that much travel.

As the sun set over upstate New York and we barreled toward the border, I thought about how everything on this trip was routes rather than destinations.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

New York Part 1: Alternate Routes

2011-09-18T18:00:00.004-04:00

What follows was originally posted on a different blogging platform. I know I don't check in at SWP as often as I used to, so I wrote it up for that audience, but it's important to keep this as part of the narrative. One or two people still read this business and it'd be weird if I did come back later and didn't acknowledge this. So if it seems like there's a gap, it's because it's not originally part of the narrative of SWP. Even though it's... y'know, my life. I posted these in five installments between Tuesday and Friday after I got back Sunday night the 11th.

I'm attempting to wrap my head around what I've just done this weekend. I rode the bus away from New York City in love with myself and my world and thinking only "Thank God or whatever that I'm not a normal person. A normal person would not have sought the experience I've just had." A normal person takes a plane to New York (or sure, a bus,) stays in a hotel for four days or a week, and plots out their days based on the numerous attractions available. Empire State Building, Village, Central Park, Museums, Statue of Liberty, tours, whatever restaurants get good Zagat's ratings... shopping, souvenirs, maybe a Broadway Show. I've done that trip, when I was 18 years old. I was on a school trip and though there is plenty of "wandering around" time built into any NYC trip, it was also structured so that we were always on to the next thing. Normal people do that all the time and it's fun. I could easily have and enjoyed it. But because I'm not normal, I also had this alternative. I'm mild, I'm shy and quiet and introverted most of the time, and very, very comfortable in my own little world, but that doesn't mean I can't recognize a good opportunity when it comes up. That's what's abnormal about me.

I have this philosophy that anything could happen in this world. And I don't mean Earthquakes and Hurricanes (although clearly, yes, even in New York.) I mean you could meet anyone and they could tell you anything, so you've got to be game. You've got to adapt and deal. You can't constantly be stymied by things from outside your little world.

I have a whole bunch of stories from this past weekend (and beyond) and some pick up others' dropped threads, some overlap, some are complete tangents. This whole weekend has been made of tangents. It's easy to get distracted in a strange city. In more than a few conversations we'd find ourselves getting far off topic then backtracking, "Wait, what were we talking about?"

Many of the stories are not interesting except that they are a deviation from my normal existence of work and home, and by virtue, hopefully, of how I tell them.
I write this not merely to write a long journal entry (entries) about my trip, but as a writing exercise, because of how many different ways I could tell this story. I used to write like this all the time on less worthy topics. I can't promise it'll be entertaining or worthwhile to read, but it will definitely be thorough.

There's a bunch of reasons why I took this trip. It first occurred to me back when I thought I was graduating in April not August that it would be the ideal time to take some time off and go on a vacation. When I learned I would be spending a further four months in school it became a finish line promise to myself. It was harder getting through the winter knowing I'd have to take summer school, than it was to actually go through the summer. I had a great summer: my classes were enjoyable, work got a lot better after the change in management. I sought adventure with strange women (and familiar ones.) But all the while I was looking ahead.

It was all pretty abstract until August. I didn't have my Passport, I didn't have any plans, I just knew I wanted to go. I had to get my wisdom teeth out and I had to go to a wedding on Labour Day weekend. After that I was whatever, but I only had so much time until the weather got lame and I have to work hellish retail holiday. It was my secret happy thought, though: my first real time away from home, away from family, from responsibility, from anything that bothers me about my life. At some undetermined time in the future. I didn't talk about it.

Then one day at family dinner, my Grandma asks what my brother is up to and he says "Oh, I'm planning a trip to New York." My jaw drops. "Uh... no, you're not. I am."
I hadn't realized I never mentioned it. And now my brother -- a minor part of the reasons I wanted to go -- was cramping my style. I was actually really pissed off. I felt like the only two options were to go along with him, or to not go. Both sounded awful. It wasn't just that I wanted to get away from him, but I did want to go alone, and I didn't think I wanted the trip he was taking. I wanted my own. And we both had our eyes on the same vague period of early-mid September. I'm the youngest, so I have a complex about things that I consider "my own." I rarely put importance to those traits, but there's some truth there.

After I came down from my somewhat uncalled-for private hissy-fit, I briefly considered going along on his trip. It wasn't out of the question; I could get away from him and his buddy Steve, I could do my own thing and meet up with them at the end of the day. Share flights, split hotel room. From what I gathered, he did not object to this because he knew I'd probably be doing my own thing with or without him, and I'm sure he understood my need to get away. Then my cheap ass started pricing hotel rooms and thought "Fuck it, I've got a better solution."

Somehow it happened that I was on this site and I came into contact with these two crazy chicks who kept urging me to come to their city even to the point of claiming Meg would put me up for a weekend. I think a normal person would get an offer like that and say "That's really nice, but let's be serious." I'm words on a screen. I'm a few random gpoys. But after whatever contemplation, and an irresistible sense of adventure took hold, I said "Yeah. If you're serious. Let's go."

The trip came together quickly after that. Passport, tickets, plans. Dad would tell people at the wedding that my brother and I were going to New York and I would clarify, "We're both going. They're separate trips we're planning at the same time." Then came questions like "Wait... who do you know in New York?" Even at customs, they asked "Why are you going?" (Tourism.) "Who are you staying with?" (Friends.) "How many times have you met them?" (Uh... never...) Cough cough. Somehow, the officer just rolled his eyes and shrugged. He was more interested in the fact that my name is so common that when he looked me up he got someone whose information didn't match mine. "Has your passport ever been stolen?" "No. You're probably looking at the wrong Williams." "Oh, here you are. Okay, go ahead." I'm sure mom spent the entire weekend assuming I was in the process of being brutally murdered.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

016: What you thought you heard.

2011-09-07T22:32:00.002-04:00

Hot on the heels of one of the most busy weekends of my life, I'm diving headlong into another.

Thursday, we visited with Ron & Mary, visiting form England for Laura's wedding. I barely remember the last time we say them; Mary surprised me by reminding me it was in fact right before I started at either Sheridan or U of T, at the airport. (The meeting I remember, the time I do not.) It was awkward then, only slightly moreso now. Ron poked fun at the fact that I was the only one at the dinner not drinking. It got to be one of those lengthy gatherings that you just don't know how to kill until it's 10:00 and you have to make a stand.

The wedding. Holy hell. It was half an ordeal, particularly getting ready. We don't do "getting ready" very well and have only gotten worse since the bygone days of twice-annual North Bay trips. All we had to do was get ready for noon, but Eric specifically requested a half hour head's up, and dad specifically forgot.

In the meantime, I went out for coffee and found that it was, meteorologically, "hot as balls." I got home and started dressing. Eric hesitated until I got a text asking "Is Eric ready yet?" Naturally no. So I usher him off the couch.

Sometime later, after much ironing and redetermining of ties, we're on the road. The trip up was long and uneventful, just sitting in the back of a rented van (since we'd be shuttling Ron & Mary around) listening and humming along to hits of the 60's.

We had a quick lunch -- really beverages for the three of us -- and went to the wedding. Hot. As. Balls. It was in the sweltering heat of a vineyard. Gavin and the groomsmen were all sweating. Everyone was sweating. I was thankful I'm a pretty light sweater, but I felt a trickle of perspiration roll down my chest.

The ceremony was nice. Didn't drag too long, although everyone was antsy from the heat.

Afterward, before the reception, was a wine tasting. It was nice to get into the ultra-cooled wine cellar, have a couple of sips, and make our ways up to the reception. Let's see. We left the house at noon, got to Wine Country (Jordan to be specific) by 2, the ceremony was supposed to start at 3, and after a delay finally concluded at 5. The tasting took us past 6. Then I lost all track of time.

The first part of the reception was hors d'oeuvres and an open bar. At large events, especially when there's alcohol, I always manage to find myself in the company fo a willing female. After making as much small talk as I could handle with my brothers and dad, I turned around and there was this girl. This woman. This human female standing by the veggie platter. I introduced myself as the bride's cousin. She was her college roommate. Apparently Laura had been obsessed with her perfect wedding since she was a teenager.

We talked about how nice the ceremony was, about the food and how far she had come to be here (Vancouver.) I pledged to catch up with her after dinner. Dinner, incidentally, was an excellent beef tenderloin. I mentioned how little of my fifth grade presentation on Napoleon I'd retained, and Mary told me stories about the Duke of Wellington, and of Wellington boots in general.

It was weird. We needed to drink more.

Things got rater murky after dinner and the first round of speeches. There were a lot of really nice speeches. We were getting drunk and rowdy. Hours passed. The sun slipped under the hills.

I began to think about weddings and marriage in general. It's my second wedding but the first, with all love and respect to Amanda, was a passive affair. This was so involved. Laura planned a dream wedding and she got it, but there's so many intangibles that occurred to draw my attention to the specialness of the occasion. So many speeches about how long Laura and Gavin had been together. About what they meant to each other. About how to safeguard their love.

It hit me hard: does every marriage begin this way? With such an intense celebration of love? Nobody gets married thinking "We'll put a little effort into the wedding and break up in a few years anyway." Right? Everyone wants their version of a dream wedding, don't they? And doesn't every dream wedding, necessarily, take the form of a celebration of love, of a reminder of how great the love is between the two newlyweds? All those shitty marriages that end in divorce, do they begin with beautiful speeches about the sacredness of love, about how they knew they had the one during that one cute anecdote, that prolonged courtship and inevitable proposal? About how they were destined for each other?

I thought I was numb before, but that hit me hard. I wish Laura and Gavin the best. I do. I want what they have someday but I'm afraid for anyone who uses such heavy, important words, and then goes back on them years later. Was my parents' wedding like this one?

I was talking about it with Matt last night, how people who come from divorced parents have such a different view of marriage, a skeptical one, how people like me aren't as predisposed to be desperate to find love and settle down, but I would, I would settle if I ever felt I had found the right girl. But it's things like that that keep me guarded, that keep me from pursuing. I haven't been able to -- or really ever tried to -- explain that this is my biggest fault in dating (aside from generally not being desirable to most girls, let's face it I'm nobody's ideal) That I'm so skeptical, not judgmental, but definitely guarded and reluctant to pursue even what could be good.

I'll never be able to convince my parents they had anything to do with this affliction. They wouldn't see the connection even though Eric and I have both agreed it's at least part of the case.

So that was a thought that cropped up that I washed away in complimentary wine and not-so-complimentary Gin & Tonic. I found the ex-roomie again and hovered near her for the rest of the night, very transparently. Unfortunately, drunk Eric was on my case and I couldn't shake him. It got to the point where I couldn't stand standing next to him in a conversation and had to walk away, even when the roomie was around.

You'd think I'm somebody who needs, or could use, a wingman, but I've always done better solo. It just happens to be the case that anytime someone tries to help me out it just fucks me up. Eric probably wasn't even trying to be a wingman. So he was pretty much just blowing up my spot. Of course, he was pretty schmattered, so if I pointed this out he would have taken it badly. Best to just let it be and live to fight another day.

I distracted myself with others on the dancefloor. I look foolish when I try to move but nobody cares, I've learned, at least not unless there's video footage later. Mary was particularly popular, and that lady could shake a leg.

There was dancing, though. Arms wrapped around waists. She told me her original date was a journalist who got called away. He's not her boyfriend though. She's seeing someone back in Vancouver, but there's an age difference, he's in his late 30's, has a kid, they're in different places. I took this as a green light, or at least a "go ahead, slow." She told me her family lived in Oakville, and she was getting sick of the West Coast and considering moving out here with them (she was from Windsor rather than Oakville) and that when she did, we "had to be friends." I agreed. My presence must've seemed like a sign to her.

Eventually we found our way outside. She asked where my girlfriend was. I answered nonexistent. She asked what happened. I took this as my cue to try something different, which I had been kicking around in my head for some time. Something other than the truth. I told her I'd broken up with a girl a few months back, she moved out west, we wanted different things. No further explanation was required. She was sympathetic. I think the story had the desired effect.

Yes, it was a lie. A bare-faced goddamned lie. But girls don't wanna hear "Muh, I don't date much, I have problems finding the right girl, blee bluhh." That makes you seem like a charity case and most girls aren't into that.

I'm always trying to find ways to manipulate and control the narrative about myself, which is probably why I'm so averse to having my brothers around when I'm trying to get anywhere. This is my fist real foray into straight-up deception. I didn't think it wrong, though. She's some random girl at a wedding. Anyone she'd ask wouldn't know better. Even Eric probably couldn't say with much certainty that I hadn't just gotten out of a brief relationship before he moved back. My family seems aware that I have this whole other hidden existence that I'll just never willingly share with them.

I'm a liar and a secret-keeper and I'm awful but it works.

Of course, I don't lie to cover up misdeeds. I lie to cover up boringness. I'm a storyteller, after all.

Eventually Eric lumbered back around and again I couldn't deal with his presence. In retrospect, the theme of me quietly walking away from conversations involving him probably made me come off like (read: be) a dick. I just couldn't deal with the reality, the version of reality he brought along, as I was trying to stack up these delicate Jenga blocks of identity according to my own design.

This time I wandered back upstairs and noticed a pretty bespectacled redhead tending bar. I asked for another G&T and chatted her up, commiserating about wedding duties, family and bartending. I asked if she'd ever seen the show Party Down, because it was her life. She said no, but what a shame, because she was planning to write about event service herself. Admirable. I told her if she liked Arrested Development, she'd like Party Down. And of course, she said, she liked Arrested Development.

I was beckoned away soon after that. Dad was eager to find Eric and go. I knew where he was. He was hard to pull away. He wanted to go to an after-party and I told him this was impossible. He was not happy to hear this and tried to concoct schemes in which he could stay, but I nagged. I death-glared him. I was extremely upset with his conduct, although perhaps more indignant about it than I had a right to be, the fact remained that he had over-indulged and was starting to get belligerent. I came to the point of wanting to sock him in the face. Admittedly, it's not the nicest thing to be rushed by your family when you're having a carefree drunk good time and told it's time to go. I knew because I'd just been through it, but I'm always easier about such things than Eric. Oh, I complain, but I do my duty. Frankly, this was not the time or place for that level of insane drunkenness.

We left abruptly, then. In the car, I seethed with irritation if not rage, but he was eventually apologetic. I told him we'd talk about it later, when he was sober, and when I'd had time to calm down. He said nah, we probably wouldn't, and he was right. You know you're someone's brother when you can be murderously angry at them one night and shrug it off after a night's sleep.

Truthfully, due to Eric's conduct and my own, I'd be surprised if I ever do see her again, whether she moves to Oakville or not. Not sure what I'd say if I did. The fridge horror of me constantly abandoning them with my ass-drunk brother dawns on me and makes me look nearly as bad. "Here, he's your problem." I wasn't thinking clearly.

We got back to Oakville in good time, less than an hour, about half the time it took us to get out there. Beautiful night driving conditions. I went to bed as soon as I could and got up early the next morning to go to the store and work. Bev came in briefly to do paperwork, and it was then that we learned two of the people booked were going to be out sick, and nobody to replace them.

I've had a bug up my ass about this for a while, but I still haven't expressed it to Bev: We need more people from around Oakville. No more goddamn Brampton or Brantford people. People who can come in on a moment's notice. Lord knows there are enough people nearby who want the jobs. It's not personal, I like all the co-workers wherever they come from, but when Trevor comes in a half hour late because of traffic, what can you say?

So Kyle and I agreed to do our best working Sunday on our own, which was double fun because Kyle had to arrange New Releases. So basically I was on cash all day. Upsold a ton. Monday was a nice day off, and then Tuesday the corporates sent us a shit-ass insane sales target, which through the virtue of more rampant upselling and some very fortunately-times bulk customers, we made and beat with an hour to spare. It was a personal triumph. Which is good, because things have been tense, with the RM breathing down our necks more than usual.

Of course, there's no pleasing some people, and those people have a nasty habit of getting into authority positions.

I'm still reveling in the fact that this is my first September without school. Normally fall means adjusting to a new schedule, devising routes between classes, finding where to sit in this and that lecture hall and -- more importantly, the part I'll miss most -- scoping the girl or girls I will talk to but not do anything with.

I'm not sure how I feel that that part of my life is over.

So the big news is that after a long period of contemplation, I'm headed to New York tomorrow night. I've been thinking about it since before I knew I wasn't graduating and it was just a matter of finding the right time, and now here we are at the right time. It's just a weekend, but for so long I've been craving something that is my own. A little solitude and space. And I'll have plenty of it on a ten-hour bus ride, a weekend in a foreign city.

I planned it loosely around my friend's schedule, who I'll be staying with and what we can do. I ended up getting a new phone because my old non-committal plan wouldn't handle international calling, and being able to contact people is kind of key for this type of travel. So there's another 4-year phase of my life gone. And 6 years ago, there I was writing about my New York Trip in this blog and skimming over it, at a time when I absolutely wrote about everything, just because the experience was so overwhelming.

The kid comes around.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

015: Over this

2011-08-27T22:50:00.002-04:00

I was thinking lately how I'd like to go back to writing long, self-involved paragraphs upon paragraphs about myself and my day and the things I don't like about myself, the way I did when I was younger. I think in general it's a good thing I don't blog the way I used to, that I'm slowly closing out that chapter of my life. When I was in first-year philosophy, I heard about the Ship of Theseus, replaced plank by plank until you have to wonder if it's even the same ship. Slowly every part of me is replaced. It's not a particularly subtle metaphor.

I'm listening to music from first year. Night after night I would sit at this computer -- no, a computer unlike this one, but in this same spot -- listening to this band on MySpace of all places, coaching one of my friends in a far off place through her own first semester at University and secretly getting her to coach me through mine. Even though I had been out of high school for two years, through Sheridan and matured significantly, I still had much growing to do. I still do, but I'm steadier now than I was then by far.

That time felt like such a massive shift in the dynamic especially because so many of the people I knew who were (are) younger than me were leaving. It felt like a more complete parting than my actual graduation. Time's gone by, we've only drifted further, and we've gotten okay with it. That sort of callous of apartness and distance.

I was thinking this morning about the last time I was unemployed, how I'll never again just be free to gad about my own freedom. That was the summer we did Half-Past. I can't believe I spent a whole summer with my only obligation as being two days of school a week. I used to not have to do anything most of the time in general. I still remember that night, just before Halloween 2009, when Gus called me in to ask if I could work the next day, essentially my second shift in what would ultimately be my permanent job (at the time, merely a 3rd-round temp). I was going to a party that night. I accepted anyhow, got drunk and went home early, then got up in the morning for work. Huh, the less things change.

Eric and I had a very lengthy conversation the other night. It started off as just sort of an honest statement of where we are with each other, a cleansing of the palette, and ended up, as it always does, as a lengthy discussion of writing: of Sewerman, of our own projects, and of our future projects. I told myself I'd write more once of out school and well, I'm not getting any more out of school now am I. Time is coming to put my money where my mouth is. I can't anymore say "When, when, when, soon, soon soon." It's got to be now, doesn't it?

The flow of time has been disrupted. I'm not "back to school." My schedule isn't going to change. I'm here now. This is me.

This is what I think between thoughts of romance and loneliness. I beat myself up for not behaving as writerly as I should.

Got caught up reading old entries (such a rare occurrence now,) marveling how time passes differently. In those posts from late 2009 I could break down my whole day at work. Now it's just "I was at work, I gave a guy a refund and danced like a maniac for the amusement of others, I had a roast beef sandwich for lunch, and then I went home." Kyle challenged me to a mustache-growing contest. He is sorely misguided.

I don't feel great, but I know I'm better now. It's strange.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

014: There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall

2011-08-14T03:21:00.002-04:00

A couple weeks later I was back at the online dating thing, a fact I alluded to in my previous entry. I'm a quitter who doesn't actually know when to quit, apparently.

At some point in my travels I got in contact with this sympathetic lady in her late 30's trying to feed me the reassuring lines. Now, sometimes I'm okay, but I usually react badly to attempts to reassure me because, well, I don't have the highest opinion of myself and I don't see any of these attempts as justified or properly informed.

So let me tell you about this second girl I ended up meeting. I was trying to frame it as something casual, and she was, in theory, up for it, but we got into a situation where our "not really a date" (complete with "you don't have to pay for my ticket, I'll pay you back") became just that. The idea, naive as it may seem, was that we were just going to meet up and mess around a bit and not behave as though it were a date. However, every attempt we made at breaking out of the date paradigm hit a brick wall. Ideally we would've just done it at the privacy of one of our houses, but her clever idea was to go to the movies, sit in the back, and if it didn't go well, at least we'd have the movie. Then it turned out a lot of people still wanted to see X-Men First Class a month into its run. The theater filled up and she got skittish as fuck. I got thrown off my game, couldn't get comfortable and as nice as I tried to be, I guess I just... wasn't that mythical "best version of myself."

I stole a kiss goodnight and took a cab home and woke up the next morning wondering what fucking right I had to ask anybody into my life, for a commitment or otherwise. I live like a fucking asshole. Nobody wants that. And that's the truth lurking underneath the entire ordeal, which is hat I'm convinced I'm totally unworthy of another person's affection. I didn't really realize the date went badly until I asked for another and was met with that all-too-convenient non-reply, the standard rejection for the internet age.

The next night was Marti's birthday. I went out to Toronto to meet up with her and Rosi and her half-dozen or so other friends I barely know. We ended up at this guy, Jordan's house, and just when I was feeling awkward enough to leave we started playing this board game, Quelf. It was pretty fun and I was getting into it, but it meant I had to crash there the night. So I gave in, got more drunk, on liquor, which made me handsy. I hope Marti didn't mind. Truthfully, she did well at keeping me from going too far.

I woke up the next morning around 8:15 and hurried to the next train. Luckily, we were at Front St only a few blocks from the station. Only Rosie was awake to wave goodbye. My plan was to catch a nap before starting work at 1, but as I rode the bus from the station home, I got a text from Chantelle saying Kyle had called in sick, so would I mind coming in whenever? Roll of the eyes. Sure, let's do this.

It was a pretty chill day, we played Mix CDs all day. When I described the recent events of my life, she asked "What is going on with you, man?" I said maybe it was a mid-life crisis, she said maybe it was an epiphany.

Not much has happened since. Another school paper, done two days late, although this one was less of an ordeal. What's done is done. Yesterday I got my wisdom teeth out. It hasn't been as much of a fun-filled drug vacation as I'd hoped, but to some degree at least I've been hanging out in my room zonked out. The soft food diet has made me pretty queasy though.

That's... the long and short of it I guess. I have little motivation to keep talking. Whatever, I'm lame.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

013: I dreamed I left you.

2011-08-03T00:45:00.005-04:00

That moment when you realize exactly how many piles of crap there are in your life.

And I don't mean symbolically. "That guy over there, what a pile of crap." I mean we have a nasty habit -- myself especially -- of piling crap up and letting it be. Unwashed dishes are a recurring motif, as are random scattered papers and now assorted CDs and stuff from work. And cans and bottles and just... so much crap.

I'm in so many places I barely have a sense of myself anymore. I don't take ownership because I'm so transient. Let the mess be dealt with by those who are living in it. Of course they won't. So I'm left to ponder it and maybe when I get a moment I can deal with it, or maybe not.

I wasn't even going to write about that today but I just had a moment to glance around and realized it. And of course my life is a mess. It only follows. What I rarely consider is what this means for me. I woke up the other morning and I thought about how my room is such a mess, and what would I do if I ever tired to have someone over... clean up? It's hard to figure out how I would ever fit another person in my life.

I had a date on Friday night. Actually, it was the second girl I've seen in a month, which is startling in a way, but fitting since I realized lately this is a very key transitional period in my life. Something's ending. The phrase "back to school season" has no meaning to me anymore. Oddly enough, this has been the second best summer of my life because I've been forcing it a bit. Trying to meet people and do things. Two weeks ago I met a girl from the internet for a quick date. It was uncomfortable because she was a, uh, exotic dancer. And that doesn't inherently say anything about her, but she had little frame of reference to understand my life. Every question she asked was just the most painful small talk imaginable and every answer I gave, every attempt to be clever or interesting, was met with a glazed-over look.

There are people who live interesting lives, and there are people who are just good at making their boring lives sound interesting.

When we met up, she asked me why I was wearing two shirts when it was so hot out. I unbuttoned the top one to reveal my Scott Pilgrim "PLUMTREE" shirt.

"Plumtree, what's that?" "It's a band." "Oh yeah? Like a band? Like rock band?" "Uh, yeah." "I don't listen to music."

You can kinda take that as a representation of how the whole afternoon went.

We were talking about going to the movies. She says, "I loved Hangover 2." "Yeah, it looks good." "What movies you like?" "Uh, I just saw Horrible Bosses, that was really funny." "Oh, yeah, that was good. What else?" "Um, you know, all those. I loved Superbad, Knocked Up..." "I don't remember those. Too old. What else?" Uh...

At the end of it, we were walking down the sidewalk and she pulled me aside. "Listen, this isn't gonna work out, you're not what I'm looking for." Apparently it was the "being a student" (and therefore broke without much going on in life) I told her I was sorta thinking the same thing, which made her don a look of confused surprise. I think she was expecting a guy like me to be really eager to be with her, and she's maybe never been... rejected before? Well she was skeptical until I quickly said. "You know, we're different speeds." And I think she got that. We parted ways.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

012: Echolocation

2011-07-15T00:15:00.002-04:00

Here is where I can pretend to be deep! And sad and stuff.

I had a weird night at work. A few of those experiences that would go in the catalogue of weird customer behaviour. One Indian kid samples CD after CD, keeps leaving and coming back, settles in the corner with a Tupac book (if I'd been feeling less chill I might have picked his ass up off the floor,) and by the time he finally decided which CDs to buy I just wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I guess that's not good for business. On the plus side, customers were receptive to our variety of cash crashers, and it was really quite quiet. A was visited by a few of the girls from Coles, which was fitting since, as I'd had the morning off (until 5, even) I went and made good on my peldge to go visit Amanda at her new store. Time and tide is putting a lot of distance between us lately, and yet we didn't have much catching up to do, we mainly talked the usual.

I just had a lot of time to stand around doing nothing while Kyle fumbled his way through his first receiving shift. Had we known the idea for the day, I probably would have gotten him to switch shifts with me, although this was truthfully the best day I've had in a while.

I just... felt bad for a lot of the day, especially standing around the store by my lonesome, trying not to approach the same four customers over and over, being a sad lonely kid. I should beware of sinking too deeply into my problems. They aren't problems, they're just boredom.

I tried to write the other night and it just wasn't working. I find it hard to be motivated. I might have to just sideline the whole concept until school is over, because to the degree that effects my life, it's... something. Or maybe when Eric goes away for a little while next week.

That'll be nice. Not that I don't like having him around, we actually get along very well nowadays, it's just not my favourite living situation in general.

Well, we try. This guy's left unfinished. Yet here we are at the end. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

011: Patterns and progressions

2011-07-04T23:33:00.003-04:00

Consider this the text equivalent of soberly looking into a camera on a reality show. My eyes don't exactly know where to focus, my voice is a low, nervous rumble. Lots of sighing.

Really, no different from your average SWP post. I never really come here unless I'm in a bad mood. Truthfully though I'm not in that bad a mood. Things aren't bad. Work is going well. Still really like my new manager. School this summer has gone better than it has any right to.

I finished my Brit Lit course two weeks ago. Well, that's complicated. Yeah, the last class was two Mondays ago. The final test was the Monday before that. I liked that test. The format was that you bring your books, select any random passage out of all three, and analyze the shit out of them. I got an A in the class after reading only 3.5 of the 6 books... I barely participated in the last two lectures, and was dismayed to find that the girl I'd been talking to every week in that class saw fit to skip them. Made me wish I'd chatted up the chipper opinionated girl sitting across from me instead.

So that was over with, and then on the following weekend, I learned my paper in my CanLit class was due two days earlier than I thought. And I was already leaving it to the last minute, so imagine my despair when I learn I'm AT the last minute, all of a sudden. I had a miniature emotional meltdown.

I did manage to get the paper done. It was agonizing. Considering the piece clocked in at 8 pages on a book I wasn't sure I comprehended (The Double Hook by Sheila Watson, written in terse, stark, obscure modernist language) it's a wonder I was only two days late (and thus, perhaps appropriately, handed in exactly when I thought I was supposed to.) It was a mess. I had to compose it in my few spare moments between classes and work and commuting and generally being a slacker.

It was a rambling, shambling mess of a paper with a few vaguely inspired points mushed together by awful linking verbs. I hated it. I renounced it. Well that's not true, I handed it in with a chastised "Here's my paper, deduct four marks." Truthfully, four marks off for two days late isn't bad. So instead of a 65, I'd get a 61. I'd learn a valuable lesson about budgeting my time and try harder. This is, after all, my last go at University. I'd like to try being a model student.

Yeah, right.

Meanwhile, once that paper was out of my life, I had a midterm the next week. This one was passage identification. All I had to know was what to talk about and the mark came back a solid B, even though I could be said to have read, in whole or significant part, only two of the books in question. To this day I have managed to avoid giving As For Me And My House more than a cursory glance.

Hurm.

The mark for that bad boy came back today as a solid B, my usual expectation for myself. The real surprise was when I got my essay back, and it wasn't the comeuppance I was expecting. It was a fucking A. Well, A-, even after the lateness subtraction.

The paper, I should note, is marked to hell with reference to my awful formatting and rambling essay style, but I haven't given the remarks more than a glance because cripes, I hammered that fucker out in under 48 hours -- LATE -- between a 6 hour school day and an 8 hour shift... largely the morning of -- and somehow it still turned out cogent and intelligible enough to warrant a goddamned A-.

I mean, what can I do? I thought I had reached the upper limits of my slacking ability when I got an 83 on a paper banged out in 4 hours on a book I hadn't read. I am somehow charmed. I am one of the all-time great procrastinators because it just comes so easy for me. This is not a great precedent to set for the rest of my life. That natural ability gets rewarded and hard work isn't worth the time and effort. But I guess that ship has long since sailed. I guess I was looking to be called out on my shit at least once more (I was maybe once or twice before) as I end my University experience. But I guess none of what happens here matters anyway. It certainly won't soon.

My last thought is that I'm lonely this summer. All the people I want to be with are far away. There's nobody to meet. Like a stupid fool I keep scouring the internet looking for I guess a diamond in the rough. But that's why they call it the rough. Because there's a shitload of it to sift through, and there's not a lot of diamonds in it. It's rough.

These women I keep finding... it's either their interests or their approaches or their general attitudes or expectations are out of line with mine. That's the appeal of romance. You don't set out your criteria. You don't bring your shit to the table. You just let life happen. But fuckin... life never ends up happening here. I just don't know how to make it happen. It's a lot like that essay thing, except I'm actually getting as little as I deserve for my efforts.

I stopped by the HMV at Yonge-Dundas. It'd been a while since I could feel like a customer. A number of pretty girls work there, but I was just talking to this one dude. I admitted I worked at one. Nice guy.

I'm tired and played out, but thanks for hearing me.

010: Unimpressive essence

2011-06-19T22:58:00.003-04:00

I am, probably justifiably, not thrilled with myself lately.

I like the idea that nobody's reading this anymore. Times like these, I like to think I'm performing to an empty house. This might not be literally true. There may still be some that remember the URL and click now and then to check in on me. And much to your dismay, the answer is always shit. I'm only ever feeling good elsewhere. Here is where I feel like shit. Here is where I go to organize that shit into words in a place where I can comfortably assume a null response.

I like that because when you are conversing with others, there's an expectation of dialogue. An understanding between me, the source, and you, the receiver. If I complain about my life, it's understood I'm probably looking for reassurance or sympathy or at least acknowledgment. I'm not, here. I came up with a whole other blog where I know who is reading and can reliably gauge how they will respond, and form my entries accordingly. It's a degree of manipulation that occurs in every conversation: I want you to think this about me.

In those cases, I guard myself. I don't want the sympathy that badly. I kid, I play around, I try to take control of the narrative and downplay whatever seriousness I feel about my own scene. I always privilege others' misery over my own because let's face it, whatever I'm going through still feels so insubstantial to me. Like, this is luxury misery. A bit guilty for that.

I'm stuck in a situation I badly want to escape. I have a paper due tomorrow (oh Holy Shit I thought it was Wednesday) that I don't want to write.

I officially no longer have time to sit around hashing out my issues now that I realize how fucked I am.

Sorry, no real entry for you, nonexistent audience.

Even if you're there.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

009: Gasps in the narrative

2011-06-13T23:59:00.003-04:00

A bit over a year ago, I was trolling Omegle and I came across this random girl who was capable of quoting Monty Python (not in itself an unlikely skill) and made reference, without prompt, to a book I had just read (and written a paper on and loved) called "The Things They Carried," which was unlikely. She was 16 at the time, and has just now graduated high school. Our similar senses of humour and unspoken understanding of each other made us e-siblings, which is the angle we both feel most comfortable relating. Until this past weekend, I had never seen a picture of her face, because we declined to exchange photos right away and then made it a long-term "thing," declaring we'd show ourselves after she'd graduated (arbitrary, but as good as anything.)

So this past weekend I saw her for the first time, on her Facebook profile. Her default photo is from her high school graduation. Since it's graduation season, I have a few of my friends in grad gowns right now. I'm trying not to get upset over the fact that I really should be graduated by now, instead of finishing up over the summer. I made my peace with that one weeks ago. But it's as good a moment as any for reflection.

A few weeks ago, I met a girl from the internet in Toronto. No big thing, it wasn't even a date (I paid for the drinks over her protest.) A lot of our talk had to do with high school times. I don't know why, I don't usually think too hard on it or try to bring it up around people. But I was in a mood for talking about it, recounting some of the defining experiences of my young life. I told her how some of my experiences back then made me into who I am now, someone who isn't driven by a fear of being alone (obviously, even though I am and I hate it, I'm more content to just let it be than date for dating's sake.)

I'm not nostalgic. I have no delusions about the fact that my teen years were largely miserable. I have a record of my last year of high school right here on this blog, and a lot of it sucked, and it was easily the best one. But I miss having potential. I miss having an unlimited scope of possibilities. On the first day of classes for these summer courses, it occurred to me, barring some (new) strange twist of fate, this is my last first day of classes, my last new beginning. My last time to look around the room of unknown girls and think "Which one would I wanna date, if I had the balls?" My last girl I ended up chatting up only to become "that guy she sits next to." My life has largely turned out stagnant, but this really is the end of this potential, at least the beginning of the end of it.

I miss the days when I could've been anybody, but yearning for what can never be again doesn't fix anything. I've still got some possibility left, I can't let myself get thinking I'll never have anything of my own, that even if I keep looking I'll never find something to make me happy.

Even if the evidence suggests it.

Things have actually been good lately. Aside from having little time to myself (ie to study) work is keeping me rather happy. The new manager has such a great attitude it's contagious. I had my final test in my Brit Fic class today, so that's one less thing to worry about (whether I totally fucked it up, we'll see.) I'm in a good state with my brother, aside from getting horribly depressed when I think about his life, but that's not my problem.

I do have enough of my own problems. It's getting easier to keep them in perspective though, I think.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

008: Missing Me

2011-06-05T22:52:00.003-04:00

I don't know what the point of me is anymore.

I'm bummed out again tonight. I should be reading. I could be writing. But I'm not overly impressed with myself lately. There's nothing for me, no time or space or energy. I don't know what I want. I don't know what would make me happy. I don't know whether I value my own happiness enough to seek it out.

I'm lonely but I'm not even alone. I don't get a minute to myself most days, unless you count train time. I'd like to be able to relax in my own house again but I can't. Even now, there's not really much taxing my attention, and I still feel on edge. I get headaches because I need new glasses (at least, I hope that's why.) Mom thankfully made my appointment for wisdom teeth removal, after all the drama of getting my insurance temporarily back.

I want to run away. I had... not plans for this summer, but ideas. Imaginings. I'd just go. I'd pack up my shit and go, for I don't know, a week, a month if I felt I could get away with it. New York or England or something. It's stupid to think you can just jaunt off to some far off place because you don't like your living situation, or that it'll make a damn bit of difference once you get back.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know if I should do anything.

I can't write. My head's not all right. I feel like a stupid teenager all the time. I wish I could relax. I wish I had something to offer.

But I guess I could just sit around feeling bitter and useless, or I could do something.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

007: How to Hide

2011-04-27T23:28:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, all I want is for someone to pat me on the back and say "It's not as bad as you think."

Of course, you can't know how bad I think it is, but I know intellectually that it's not as bad as that. Lately I can't shake a lot of bad feelings and have wondered if many I should go with the trends and start on the happy pills. A few years ago, my aunt mused to me that she was reluctant, because she believed they may hamper creativity. I don't even remember whether she ended up doing it.

Phil and I had an exchange on Twitter about this blog. For a long time now I've been trying to figure out how it still fits into my life. The one valuable aspect of it is that it remains, in a sense, detached and free... my other little ways of expressing myself on the internet are all dependent on some kind of network, interaction, and that permits a certain kind of discourse. I write, on Twitter or Tumblr or wherever, knowing who is going to read it, and aware of the image I was constructing of myself, and who was receiving it, and what they might have to say in response.

I had a moment this weekend where I posted a photo of myself on Tumblr for the first time, and the ladies of Tumblr (and if you're reading, hey, congrats! I almost certainly did not tell you about this) reacted... favorably, I guess, to the way I looked. Which is new. And then I had to spend time figuring out how I wanted to be seen reacting. It is a writing project of its own kind, much like this one, and they both have their places.

For 7 years, though, I've been here, completely shedding off my self-conscious image-producing and being whatever my fingers make me. I can look back at myself in the last 7 years and feel confident that whatever I was writing about myself at the time, I was being as honest as I could, for better or worse, without much regard as to who might be reading or what they might think. I think a lot of my issues lately have stemmed from the fact that I've fallen far from the habit of writing in this blog, and lacking the release it has offered really takes its toll. There have been so many moments I wish I were still in SWP-mode to record, in the past 4 months, and yet there's little time or worth in explaining them. If I continue to write here more regularly, they will have to remain obscure... my lost winter.

I have a lot to be mad about in my little world. Creative frustration. Professional misery. Romantic dismantling. Future panic. After I wrote my last post, I began to read a book for my summer class (well, one of them,) and was enjoying it... thinking of the way the sentences fit together to form meanings in my mind (thank you, Ferdinand de Saussure,) and somehow, for whatever reason, feeling better about my ability to write and to create meanings for others. I felt better. For the time being, I feel okay enough to write.

And hey, here I am.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

006: Go further

2011-04-23T18:38:00.003-04:00

I don't know if this blog still occupies a place in my life. I never thought it wouldn't but I tweet and post so much elsewhere it's hard to even justify trying to sit down and relate through this blog, because it's already out there, and yet... it's no substitute.

I used to be able to put things in order. "This happened, then this happened, and this is how I feel about it." It's hard to tell anymore, not just because of how long I go between posts. Everything is tangled up. I don't know what to do about myself.

I'm not into anything anymore. I can't seem to enjoy my writing. I'm not pleased with how dependent I've gotten on the people I know on the internet. Even my music blog bums me out now. I play way too much Minesweeper. Nothing feels good, and I worry about my future because nothing seems like a viable option anymore. Everything pisses me off or depresses me lately. I feel like I am going to snap, and I would probably enjoy it because it would be a way to get things off my chest. I don't even know what's on my chest, it's just some invisible burden.

I want to crumble down into nothingness.

Do I just keep doing what I've been doing and try to get better?

Last month, Gus left the store. We were all worried, and a little after that, Karen was fired, so now things are really gonna change. They already have. I'm not into talking about myself anymore/right now. I don't know what to say. Offend in every way?

More later, but maybe not. This isn't anything. It isn't even pain. It's just frustration, it's just a bummer, and I'm sorry if you read it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

005: Another way out

2011-03-04T22:34:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, man, I get bummed out.

This blog, once so lively, whether I was in a good mood or not, is now a haunted, lonely place. I often thing it's time for me to, in the words of Pavement, quarantine the past, leave SWP behind with school. There are so many gaps in it now that it's not really the record of my existence it once was. Things change.

I'm sitting here in my basement, where 99% of these 1307 posts have been written. I wonder if I'll get out of here ever and join the real world. There's silence, except for the space heater and, of course, the sound of my own fingertips smacking the keyboard. I'm not even listening to music. Eric was here until about 8, visiting since Tuesday, so get some stuff done. I've been writing all day. I wrote over a thousand words for a prose piece I'm working on. Good progress. I wrote a review for two CDs in one (Weezer's Hurley & Death to False Metal, which I got from work for free several months ago.) Now it's not even 11, I'm tired of playing Minesweeper over and over, so I thought that while I had the mindset, I'd write another blog post.

That's the thing. No matter what it was, I've always written. That's what separates me from a lot of my friends who would write, who get ideas, who have thoughts. They don't push themselves, they don't make it a part of their routine the way I do. Man, it was early on in this blog that Ana challenged me to write a screenplay as fast as I could for a hundred bucks -- still my highest-paying writing gig. I was only 17 goddamned years old at the time.

Tuesday morning, I was coming out of the subway at Museum and ran into Cary coming the opposite direction. It was funny, because while we were just outside his law school building, I never go that way. I'd only gotten off at Museum because I'd intended to get lunch near there. So we got a cup of coffee and caught up on the usual topics.

The main topic of conversation with Cary is some combination of girls, writing, (specifically Half-Past but more generally whatever I write) and copyright law. He gave me an idea, that I should write eBooks that can be sold on Amazon. Brilliant. So simple. Why didn't I think of that sooner?

The main obstacle is this: for a while now I've been working on myself as "serious" writer. If I was going to put time and energy into writing something it was going to have substance. The problem with this is sort of that I knew that if I wrote all that, then put it on the internet, nobody at all would take interest in it. It would drop off, and my work would be done. I have one or two big books in me, and if I just chuck them into the eBook store, that would be it. Time to go work in an office.

And so it is with this in mind that I begin what I am calling the "vampire porn" phase of my career. A few weeks ago, I was talking to Kris for the first time in a long while, and we began rolling around ideas like we often do. I mentioned my theory that if I wanted to just be in it for the money, I'd do a vampire porn comic and get donations. It sounds cynical, but since there's a market for it, you can't argue with the logic, assuming I do a good job writing it. Before long we were talking about characters and concepts, as we always do.

We've been having these same conversations since I was 12 or 13 years old, and we were hanging out in his room reading X-Men. My God. We've tried to get so many projects off the ground, and after he moved to Detroit, I gave up on the idea of us ever being collaborators. Suddenly it's like we're teenagers again and I'm sitting on his bed in Palmerston going "What if the character does this? How about if the girl says that?" It's fortuitous that I have this idea in my head while I'm considering cashing in via the e-books, I'll admit I'm wary: I don't want to pursue this particular idea without Kris' involvement. I owe him that much, even if I just end up writing prose stories and asking him for illustrations or at any rate his input.

For now then, I've got a few other quick and dirty ideas I might be able to peddle for a small sum. It isn't like I believe this will be a real moneymaking venture, but it's a free service, so it's no risk-whatever reward. So it's spurred on a fair bit of activity, in addition to whatever else I was getting at.

Anyway, I've been drinking, this post has been sitting for like an hour, I'm pretty tired, so I might as well call it a night. Productive day... I could use more like it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

004: Hungry Brains

2011-03-02T14:06:00.003-05:00

Fascinating. I've never gone a month without blogging here before. I've thought about it often (every single fucking post I make nowadays needs to make this observation.) and wondered if maybe I'm done with SWP. I share tons of minute (That's my-newt, not min-ut) thoughts on Twitter, and even on Tumblr, which has recently been "my thing," where I post both blogs and actual writing. But I never write full-out soul pouring blogs on there. Sometimes I make a small statement or tell an anecdote and get some response (which was never really the goal of SWP anyway... well sometimes, but I've always done better under the impression nobody actually would read it.)

February 2011 has actually been the kind of month I would have written several notable blog entries, if I'd been up for it. It began with a night out that was supposed to involve going to Neabel and Kate's for Kate's birthday -- really I just wanted to go to the predrink and split afterward when they headed out for a bar, because I had to go to work the next day. But as Kate is now officially my friend (on Facebook and everything) I decided to make the effort.

The problem was mine: I had neglected to get proper directions before heading out, and I didn't have Kate's cell number, so I texted Neabel. She was unresponsive. So I had gotten myself stranded out in Toronto with no itinerary, having basically written off the notion of going to Kate's party. I was wandering the LCBO (mainly to get out of the cold, it was the midst of a pretty thick snowfall) texting anyone I knew in Toronto to see if they were as desperate for company as I was. What's worse, just the night before, I was supposed to meet up with Chantelle and Ryann for drinks, and they stood me up due to poor organization skills. That one wasn't really my fault the same way the Kate one was, but no matter the case, I was feeling like ass two nights in a row.

My saviour was Cary, who responded to my text while I was browsing the Yonge & dundas HMV (felt nice just to browse as a customer, being one of the only signs of life in their rock/pop section on a quiet Saturday night.) He was getting back to the city after helping his aunt move, so he had nothing going on. Sweet. The night was looking up. He told me to meet him at his place around 9:30. On the subway ride over I engaged in a little subway limbo, which was novel. The night was really looking up, and I returned to myself after devolving into a pathetic mass earlier in the night.

We ended up watching Taken, and then a documentary on Yellowstone, and I stayed later than I'd probably intended to, but caught the last train back since, again, I had to work. The fact that I was able to turn the course of the night around made me feel flat-out good, but I still had a chip on my shoulder. I went into work feeling mad about the thing with Chantelle, but she apologized profusely, making it hard for me to fixate too long.

The next few weeks had their ups and downs. On the day after Valentine's Day, my friend robin from Anthro turned to me and informed me that her ex-boyfriend had invited her to a concert (like, that very minute) and whether she should go. She pointed out that she had turned his name to "DO NOT CALL" in her address book, which seemed like a bad sign, but even as I warned against backslides, she went. I was a bit deflated about this, as not having much of a love life of my own means I put a lot of stock in others'. The next day, we went out for pizza -- our first real hangout as friends, actually -- and she elaborated to me his importance to her life. He'd seen her through family troubles (which were ongoing) and was her best friend and all that, and hey, it's hard not to understand that. It wasn't some sleazy guy she needed to get away from -- they just broke up because of those pesky personal problems that sometimes drive people apart. So I get that.

There were a lot of other things we talked about, from music and TV to sex ed. This random girl I met just because we happened to be sitting beside each other in tutorial turned out to be someone I could really relate to. I even told her the cinnamon story (from this past July.) I'm a good magnet for people.

Reading week was looking lame. I didn't know much what to do with my free time -- I didn't even work Monday night because of family day -- and all my attempts to write were for shit. On the Wednesday, Shane had invited a bunch of us out to Toronto to a place called Snakes and Lattes for a Murder Mystery. I wasn't sure I'd be going, who would be there, or if it would turn out lame, but I figured I was desperate for human interaction and if things were a bust I could -- a, leave early, or b, convince them to play other games. Snakes and Lattes is a cafe/bar/thing full of board games, and when I got there, they were already in the middle of something, waiting for us late arrivals (at 9:30 for the 9:00 event, I was not the last to show.)

It ended up being a fucking hilarious night, as we all dove into our characters, dicked around with our backstories, made sexual innuendo, heckled, etc etc. There was one girl I'd known from my Post-WWII Modern Drama class, and she was way into her role (as was her friend, with whom she split the role, pretending to be her Robot buddy "Vortex") and basically egged us all on.

Beyond that, uh, I've just been trying to keep the music blog going, worrying about spreading myself thin and neglecting my school work. I realized I had a paper due on the Monday after reading week but I procrastinated hardcore until 11:00 the night before (hey, the Oscars were on... okay, I have no excuse.) It was only 6 pages, and I bragged to the Twitterverse that I could "crap out 6 pages before breakfast." The truth is, it wasn't going to be my best work, and I proceeded with an incredibly elementary reading of Barthes' Rhetoric of the Image and La Jetee. I think it deserves a 65 or so, but it'll probably get more because it always seems to be the way (except when I bottom out, like I did in second year 20th Century American Lit.) I finished up the last two pages the day of, but by then I was burned out and repeating myself. Aurgh.

School.

there's one last thing I need to say, which is that I found out in February that I won't have the necessary credits to graduate, so I'm stuck for another 1.5 credits, which I hope to make up over the summer. Needless to say, this is a drag.

We'll see how it turns out.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

003: Be No One

2011-01-21T13:42:00.002-05:00

It's Friday. I haven't blogged here in a week. I've already mentioned that I simply don't feel as compelled to jot down every aspect of my life here the way I've used to. So many other sites have encroached on that territory. Site where I know who will be reading it -- Twitter, Tumblr... hell, I don't even go into tangents about music as much as I used to because I've got a music blog for that. Everything's going okay, except when it's not.

Ah, the thick of winter. It's hard not to feel trapped in yourself, trapped in your head, trapped in your house, trapped in your life. This is the last winter I will spend in school, at least I assume. Deity willing, it was the last Christmas I'll spend at HMV. I "see myself" as leaving sometime over the summer, but that's entirely dependent on what opportunities open up for me. If any. IF any! Of course, unlike my graduation for Sheridan, I at least think to myself, "I'm ready for the real world." There's a good chance I'm not as ready as I think I am, but I (think I) know I'm ready to leave school. I just needed to gestate longer.

I met up with my aunt Lori for coffee on Wednesday. We've been trying to do this, or saying we should, since she started taking a class at U of T. I finally bit the bullet and told her we could show up early for our classes and hang out for an hour. Actually due to train times I was a half hour early for our meeting, but anyway. We talked music, school, life, and family. It was good. We'll probably do it again before the semester's over.

Last weekend, I had a weird moment. Dad had offered tickets to see The Green Hornet, either on Saturday or Sunday. I was hoping to either hang out with Amanda or work Saturday (neither ended up happening) so I asked for one for Sunday and he said sure, if you need a ride, I'll give you one (as he and Deb were going on the Saturday.) Since after Christmas I no longer work Sundays (sigh) I took it. So I got up nice and early on Sunday, and waited until 10:20 (the movie was to start at 10:30) before noticing he was probably not on his way. So I called him and, realizing exactly why I was calling he said "I forgot." They'd been out at their friends' he night before and got in late.

Well, that sucked. I mean, I wasn't particularly excited about seeing the movie, but I had gotten up early for it and had nothing else to do all day. I told him it was all right though, and hung up. A few minutes later, he called back and insisted I get ready, he'd be over in 2 minutes.

It took a bit longer, but still surprisingly fast. I told him I'd text him if I couldn't get into the movie, but they let me in.

The movie wasn't that great, but hey, I saw it for free. Even though I missed everything up to the death of the father, I still felt like I could write a competent review, since there was plenty to remark on (specifically: the 3-D is trash, but if you care about movies you already know.)

It reminds me of how on New Year's Eve, Andy Palmer came into the store. And I was all happy to see him, because hey, familiar face. But after talking with him for about 5 minutes I remembered exactly why I didn't like working with him. Nice to get those nostalgia goggles off for a minute. It wasn't even that he was especially obnoxious, and in fact he said some really interesting (if condescending -- I know what Chroma Key is) things about his job working on the show "Falling Skies," which is like "The Walking Dead" with aliens. He's just kinda dickish about the way he presents himself. Also, he noticed a copy of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged on the booktable and said "Oh cool!" Nobody who's not a dick thinks Ayn Rand is cool. Maybe Neil Peart.

Anyway, it reminds me of that because he was such a proponent of 3-D, and the conversations we had about it were indicative of how we have such different perspectives on film and how, if he's successful at all, it will probably be at the cost of never making anything actually worthwhile.

In any case, as much as I'd love to keep exploring the nothing out here, I've not got a lot extra to say these days, so keep on rockin'
-Scott

002: In Transformation

2011-01-14T00:09:00.003-05:00

It's been a weird week. I survived another extended visit from Eric over the winter break and since the weekend I've been trying to transition back to the old routine. I like it this way and don't want it to change, but inevitably it will. This is why I keep telling myself that I have to move away. Leave the nest.

The first week back at school was mostly positive, although I did learn that I forgot to apply for graduation in the spring. My fault. On Tuesday, I dressed in a shirt and tie for Grad photos. And since I was already all dressed up, I stayed that way all day. The girls in Anthro seemed to think I looked handsome. I could get used to that. Of course, to them I'm suddenly a haircut and clean shaven as well. What a difference.

I haven't slept well lately. For some reason, Community isn't as good for falling-asleep-to as other DVDs, perhaps because I feel the urge to really listen. Arrested Development is similar, but it was working well. Maybe there are more jokes in Community I haven't heard yet. It'll only be my third time watching each episode. I find myself waking up randomly in the middle of the night to the hum of the DVD player (the TV having turned itself off as I set it to do) and unable to get back to sleep. Sometimes it's because I had a dream that as deeply unnerving. Like last night, I dreamed I had this woman waiting for me in my room. And all I wanted to do was get to her but my family showed up and kept me apart from her. And I think part of that is me thinking, earlier that evening, about how I never did move out because my parents did a really good job of saying "Gee, Scott, are you SURE you wanna do that?" and now when I mention that to them they deny they did that. And of course, the reason I need the TV on is because my mind tends to wander, get pessimistic, freak out, etc etc, in the dark of night.

Karen took me aside today to basically give me a... lecture? Pep talk? It was about seeming mopey or pissy at work, albeit not in those words. There are a lot of reasons why I've been on edge for the last month, some of which are completely unrelated to the store. I don't think I'll ever be able to articulate to Karen the nature of the angst I've had lately (justified or not,) but I think she suspects it's about her. I wouldn't say it is. It's more about how I feel I come across. It's all self-obsession with me.

But really, it's just overkill. Ghosts appear and fade away...

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

001: Restart my story

2011-01-07T00:24:00.003-05:00

It seems clear to me I'm no longer as into cataloging my every movement and thought. I twitter, but mostly to share random observations and ideas than to talk about my own life. My own life is so uninteresting I find myself drifting off into my own subconscious more and more often, although that helps with creative output. I'm writing.

It was a long comedown from Christmas, but things had really settled at the store by New Year's. So much so that I was asked to leave early because it was so dead (naturally, it got a fair bit busier by the time I left.) Andy dropped by,. which was a nice surprise, although by the time he left I remembered what irritated me about him back in the day. It'll be a while before I think to myself "Man I miss working with that guy."

Individual moments happen. People take issue with our returns police (you need a -- gasp -- receipt!) December 29, I went over to the Fergs' to play Risk with them and Pat. We watched Chris and Pat's Eurodoc and then some Modern Family (good but not the work of brilliance some seem to think. Tons of broad appeal, though.) The next night I was back over there. We were supposed to go bowling, but it became makeshift Wii bowling/drinking night and then finally drinking and watching Chris play Donkey Kong.

A few others were over, including Vanessa, who didn't care for the watch-video-games-get-played strategy and harangued three others into a game of Euchre. CB, who knew how to play years ago but forgot, was shunned from in in favour of Laura Gurnham, who had to be taught. While the rest of us watched Donkey Kong and then Community, I overheard their lesson and concluded that if I were trying to learn I would fail. I was glad not to be offered, or at least that's what I tell myself.

I stumbled home way later than I'd intended, then went to work. That was the day I thankfully went home early. It's been quiet ever since and I'm not back at school yet.

The other thing is that I started a music blog, to get some of my thoughts on music out of my head and focus them in noe spot. It's also to encourage me to buy more music, which considering I work at a CD store, I ought to do more of. I've considered branching out, blogwise, for a while. Now that I'm not longer so centralized here at SWP, it seemed right. I already started with the Tumblr (where I don't post much but watch as others post random stuff and writing) and I've got Twitter where I ramble nonsensically and participate in memes. I've been finding myself less engaged with my Movie & TV Reviews over at CXPulp, so hopefully this will be something I can chew on, at least for a while.

Anyway. New Year's was chill. Eric and I just hung out, watched movies (Get Him To The Greek, Slammin' Salmon, and 500 Days of Summer, as well as half a season of the Tick) drank, and ate shrimp. I'm getting old and/or regressing. I miss those free days of just being out of high school.

The cat is being more of a dick to the dog, the dog's just taking it.

It finally snowed seriously. The other night, Andrea put Joel Plaskett's Ashtray Rock on the CD player at work. These moments are my life.

Little moments.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

A: Miles ago

2010-12-27T14:19:00.002-05:00

Brother, I am restless. The last few days have been nuts over at the HMV (and in life in general.) Last Monday, Eric and I set about doing most of our Christmas shopping. I had sorta had the day off, but had to come in, since they claimed they needed two people with keys for the night. Which I found hy-larious two nights later when I was the only one with keys. Hurm.

No individual day or night of the week leading up to Christmas got me... it was just the whole long thing. Not generally getting days off is a bad thing and I was excessively pissed that I couldn't hash them out with my manager. The whole week I just got more sore and felt more crappy. This reached its climax on Christmas eve, but let's back it up.

The night before, December 23rd, Chantelle and I were gonna go out for drinks, something we'd been saying should be done for a long time. A few more co-workers got pulled in, and I felt like I was probably gonna end up sipping my drink quietly and resentfully, pushed to the side and not being my best self. This was true for a lot of it. Chantelle also brought along two of her high school friends, and I made it my business to chat them up out of sheer boredom. They were nice girls, easy and fun to talk to, although both had boyfriends so really I was just idly chatting and badly playing pool.

I walked home from that night, far drunker than I ought to have been and already on my last legs when I woke up the next morning with a nasty cold. I worked cash all Christmas day, probably infecting half of Oakville Place with germs, but hey, germs build character. It wasn't a bad day, considering I got to stand in one spot all day.

We have three Christmas traditions: last Sunday night, Eric and I decorated the Christmas tree badly, heckling ourselves. Christmas eve, we went to dad's for Chinese food, and then, after midnight, I wrapped the gifts. Maybe those aren't traditions so much as stuff that always happens. We got some books for Aunt Lori and Gail, wine and tea towels for Aunt Karen, a Stargate Universe DVD and Pretenders CD for dad. Mom wanted this weird deep pan thing for stir fry, we didn't know what she meant so we went to Sears and looked around until we found something that looked right. For Deb, I was uncertain and about to get chocolates when I noticed David's Tea. I texted Dad to see if she'd be up for some of that, and he indicated maybe, if it were the right kind. In the end, she was happy with our pick. I thought it was the nicest gift we got someone all year.

Christmas day, I was a bit dead, or "knackered," as dad explained the etymology to us. After getting a repeat present from both mom and dad (I had suggested dad get gift receipts, but he didn't,) we headed over to Toronto, to Aunt Karen's place, for a rather subdued Christmas, which was a nice little gathering with me phasing in and out of consciousness on the couch and sitting at the table trying to pick my way through turkey dinner, still getting over my cold. At one point, Aunt Lori looked through my iPod and found herself impressed by a lot of the selection, oddly enough particularly marking out for Hawksley Workman. Go figure.

I was luckily not starting early on Boxing day. I got in at 11 and stayed until 7:30, which was a drag, but doable. I wasn't on cash all day, just running around back and forth getting stuff. I was more capable of doing that that day, so it went by quickly.

I'm exhausted and this has been more description-of-stuff than thoughts-about-stuff than I'd have liked, although I wrote a pretty gripping account of Christmas eve-eve through Christmas day on Tumblr. I'm getting single-minded, as a combination of working too much and having Eric here. I don't know what to do with myself. I should get to work now, I guess.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

B: Expect me

2010-12-20T00:28:00.003-05:00

I'm getting to a point in my life where things don't change much from year to year. I was re-reading some posts from last year, when it felt like everything was chaos and I had it all on my shoulders. The highs were higher and the lows were lower, often simultaneously. Everything's the same but in a different way.

Last year, everything felt so dire. I had to be awesome at work, and if I wasn't, I fixated on it and I took it home with me and I worried whether I would be offered a permanent job and wondered what my manager thought of me and if I could be funny and impress Cait or anyone else, and it was a crowded damn place with a ton of temps. Now we've got two temps and I don't carry my work home with me and I don't let shit bother me, I feel like if there's anything bothering me it's way bigger, but not lately. It only bothers me when I'm at work, and there's just a lot of it. It isn't so chaotic anymore. I miss it a little, but I'm comfortable.

As strange as it sounds, especially considering some of my insanity from last week, I think I'm handling everything better. I guess this is maturity.

The past few days have been long ones. Saturday -- the Saturday before Christmas after all -- was the closest it's come so far to the ongoing insanity I seem to recall from last year. We had an extra temp in from Erin Mills, a girl this time rather than the dude who came in earlier in the week, as well as Karen's daughter helping with receiving. Nice girl, we talked briefly about zombies.

The mall was open until 10 that night, which was insane and we were dead for the last hour and a half of it. I guess the Saturday wasn't close enough to Christmas for it to seem worth it. If Christmas was on Monday or Wednesday, that Saturday would've been damn necessary. I remember making dollar store runs late on Christmas Eve back in 1998 with my dad, Barenaked Ladies' "It's All Been Done" blaring on the radio.

There has been some insanity at the house lately, with Eric using some unorthodox methods to heat the basement until I finally decided to get a space heater. Mom disapproves, since she instantly distrusts any decide that generates heat. She's convinced it's likely to spontaneously combust any time now.

There was also a whole thing about whats-his-face, Peter, the guy she brought to out fake Christmas, because with Eric unwisely using the oven to warm the basement, mom thought she smelled burning (well I guess she was right) and called him over even though she's not seeing him anymore and it was "embarrassing." Well, that's only partly our fault, and really none my fault.

So I came to the conclusion that, despite my neuroses and my eccentricities, I am the only legitimately sane person in this family. And I know what you're thinking, "Yeah, everyone goes through that 'My family I soooo crazy lol' phase, but come on, they're just unique." No, really, it feels like, myself included, there is not a potential functioning adult amongst us. I'm the closest one. Eric is out there but still dealing with his issues. B. is more of a shut in than ever, and my mother believes with an urgent panic that a space heater is going to kill us all.

So, I mean, this goes a bit beyond cutesy eccentricities.

And I complain and I know I've got to get away and it's as much as my mom freaking about about heaters as it is about finding a cat knocked over the crap on my desk.

But there are good times. There's one holiday tradition that doesn't get old. Eventually, mom gets around to getting a Christmas tree -- we have a fake one, but I'm pretty sure she thinks there are mice in it so she bought a real one. So she got it, a week before Christmas, spent nearly 3x its cost on a stand, and had Eric and me decorate it. We did, per usual, a laughably half-assed job, heckling ourselves as we went along. And that's what's fun, making fun of ourselves, because nobody else is going to see it and after all there's something so funny about our Christmas spider (a felt "ornament" made many years ago, which has endured with a few other homemade ornaments.)

That and my wrapping of Christmas gifts around midnight on Christmas eve.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

C: Everything Explodes

2010-12-16T01:11:00.002-05:00

I have been "going through some stuff" lately.

I was a bit foolishly optimistic to think that I would have super lots of time to myself when school ended. This is after all the busy season at the store. Gus phoning in with possible kidney stones on the weekend didn't help, and Karen took it more severely than it was apparently meant since he was back this morning anyway.

In any case this all coincided with a shiftbomb where I had agreed, against my better judgment, to take a shift for Jess, despite it infringing upon my feeling of entitlement to have at least 2 days off each week. My attempts to take this up with Kare only resulted in more unpleasantness (albeit none directed immediately at me.) And then when this Gus thing happened, everything went whack and I swallowed my sense of entitlement and agreed to work whatever. It ended up being just one extra shift -- Chantelle asked me to take her Tuesday morning and Wednesday night shifts, because of an exam and a concert respectively. She ended up working both days anyway, so I guess the real burden falls on her and I need to stop making myself feel like a martyr for taking a few extra shifts.

Yesterday, I was giving a woman her change, when she objected. I was giving her change for $25, but she insisted, "This isn't right, I gave you two twenties, I don't have any fives left!" I handled the situation badly. As sure as I was that she'd given me a twenty and a five, I capitulated and gave her change for forty, which was dumb as sin, as my till was $15 under. I took it way harder than my manager did, however, which

By the end of my seventh straight day working -- today was my eighth -- Ryann asked me why I was trying to please everyone. I was on the brink of my sanity and I guess she could see the toll it was taking on me.

I guess I've just been feeling a lot of pressure lately. Pressure to be the hero at work (although there have been others taking on as much if not more and handling it substantially better). Pressure to be the sane, practical son in the family, given my brothers' problems and issues. I can't show weakness anymore, I'm not sure I ever could. That shit, that ain't healthy. And all this time I'm going insane and I feel like the entire fate of the human race rests on me.

Here's where it gets weird. Yesterday, as a coping mechanism of sorts, I began to "see" my late friend and former co-worker Cait. See, it was just over a year ago that we met, and things were different at the store then and I guess mentally, I began to feel like she was back at the store, chirping me for how wrapped up in all that shit I was getting and trying to ease my mind. And I guess it's not fair to idealize her or anything, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I missed her and was sad she's gone. So I imagined her back, even though I know HMV is the last place she'd want to be even as a ghost.

I went to bed early last night, well early for me anyway, at midnight. I didn't get out of bed until 11 (as I was to begin work at 4,) and that next morning, when I was in that place between dreaming and awake, when you're not sure what's a dream and what's just your own thoughts, I heard someone say, "Don't worry so much about the future. There's a long road ahead." And whatever that means -- the two statements seem to be contradictory -- it was rather comforting, whether it was my subconscious, or my waking conscious, or a ghost whispering in my ear. Either way it helped alleviate the weight of the world from my shoulders. I felt better-equipped to deal with shit today.

If you told me, in my waking life, that I didn't need to worry so much, I'd have a hard time believing you or following your advice. Even now I'm finding it difficult, but I'm trying and it seems to be holding. For now, anyway.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

D: Turn off the sound

2010-12-12T21:27:00.002-05:00

Oh, if only I could.

I've gotten into the habit of making CD's. Last week, sick of trying to find music I enjoyed, and thought others wanted to hear, I bought some blank CDs and burned a mix. It went over well, with much asking of "who is this?" at various times. Some of the artists represented were Richard Thompson, The Sounds, Pixies, Pavement, Thrush Hermit, and Richard Hell.

I showed it off to Andrea, a co-worker whose taste in music I respect. She approved and asked I burn her a copy. I considered this validation for the whole activity because I was tired of living under the oppressive regime of HMV Radio and allowing myself to forget that good music exists out there and that I have access to it.

I was in the process of composing a second one when I found a new band. In examining the origins of a song performed on Glee (a rare proposition especially nowadays when they pick material that is barely three months old) I came across a band called The Zutons. And holy crapnuts, guys. I couldn't believe I'd missed them. What a sound! That's the funny thing about my life. I have a thick filter so it sometimes takes a while for stuff I like to actually get to me. I'm resourceful, though, so I've heard a lot of stuff most other people miss. Hearing that made me already start composing the second disc, which I finalized today. There's stuff I wanted to get on there but couldn't fit since my unofficial track cap is 17, based arbitrarily on the size of the first CD. Stuff left over makes grist for the third disc, which I expect to end up making this time next week.

Today actually represents the first time in a long while I'll go 24 hours between shifts, having finished my shift today at 5:30 and starting tomorrow at approximately that. It's been a hectic week since my day of tests. I had to put off my trip to Toronto (to pick up my English paper) because Ryann desperately needed me to cover her shift. The whole schedule is like a dastardly game of kerplunk, and when you pull one stick out the whole damn thing tumbles down. This is what happens when you fire someone heading into the Christmas season and don't hire anyone to replace him. It puts too much pressure on too few people, and especially now when all the kids have exams and finals. I'm lucky to be done.

Jess needed me to take a shift, and I reluctantly accepted, which set off a firestorm of shift-re-arrangements based on my desire not to work 6 days in a week twice in a row. Schist.

It all worked out in the end, but not without the ugly side of workplace politics being exposed.

It's hard being the guy. I have a need to be the guy people can count on, to put others first, it's kinda sick. Doormat type behaviour.

Then we found out today that Gus, the assistant manager, is gonna be out for an undetermined length of time with kidney stones. Kidney stones! Sheesh. If that isn't a decent argument for hiring one more person, I don't know what is. Things are tough. Lord knows there's no shortage of people who'd like to work there even for a few weeks. We've got a drawer full of resumes. And I personally introduced her to Joe.

I don't know where I'm at lately. Things keep wandering in and out of my life it's hard to focus. I want to write but am supremely unmotivated. I hope things will become clear in the new year but I've got my doubts. Eric will be back tomorrowish. Not expecting to enjoy that, but it might spur me on a bit.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

E: Tired of myself, not tired of you

2010-12-08T00:13:00.002-05:00

Joel Plaskett lyric.

Me in relation to every woman in the world.

I want to tell you amusing stories about my co-worker Ryann. She's a really cool girl: she was heading over to Shopper's for water or whatever and asked if I needed anything. I said soap, jokingly (but not really, I needed soap) and I'll be damned if she didn't come back with a three-pack of Irish Spring.

I'm trying to get out of the habit of sharing other people's business on this blog, but she's popular with the gentlemen (and lesbians) that frequent our store. Sometimes this attention is wanted (well, not from the lesbians) and sometimes not so much. One night last week I overheard her awkwardly flirting with some dude, and just as she was scrawling her number down, in walks the guy's girlfriend. As for the lesbian, that hits closer to home, because I was kinda-sorta into her before I realized she was, according to my sources, "hardcore lesbian." I don't take it that personally, though, because I'm kinda-sorta into a lot of girls.

It's getting to the point where people who barely know me can see my problems. In my anthro class, I've formed a little study group comprised of girls, and I met up with one for studying Monday prior to the test. Between flipping through notes and generally discussing the class, we were talking about the other people we know in the class and she asked me if I liked a certain other member of our little group.

"She's fine," I says, not having been asked that question in way too long.

"There's something there," she says with the smile of someone who gets a kick out of watching someone else's story unfold. As I tell her my life is not that simple, she assesses "You seem like the kind of guy who has a lot of female friends." Yeah. "That's because you get stuck in the friend zone."

I do get stuck in the friend zone, although that isn't the source of all or even most of my female friends. I'm not sure if it counts as being friend-zoned if the person is in a relationship when you meet them, for example, and either way it only counts if you were seriously attracted to the person. I just tend to meet girls because I'm not interested in meeting dudes, and yes, with every female I meet I see a potential partner, until I know better. My problem is at this point I haven't got the wherewithal to determine what that perfect, ideal, nonexistent woman would look and act like. There are imperfections with every woman and every person and especially with me, and these I don't bother looking past because I'm no longer the kind of guy who pines, I just keep looking. And all of this assumes any of these girls were into me, and gets into my sense of myself as totally undesirable and worth nothing to anybody.

So yes, it's a bit more complicated.

It's like this pretty much all the time in my head. I'm not even upset right now, I just can never shake this negative perception of myself, I just live with it.

I was feeling this pretty severely a year ago when it felt like every female who was willing to tell me somebody should want me was in no position to speak for herself on the matter. But if I go on about that, I'll jsut depress myself. Things aren't like they were a year ago. I'm not caught in a flurry of adjustment to my job, I've been there over a year now. The new people are mostly all experienced and we have 2 temps rather than a dozen (there were fewer full-time employees then, if I recall correctly.) I'm a go-to guy, I do new releases.

It's hard balancing school and work. I did it a lot better last semester but I did it okay this year. I had all my term tests today, a problem I repeatedly said I should have corrected, but realized it too late and just wanted it over with. The build up to today was characterized by attempts at studying and occasional realizations that I'm not cut out for studying. I'm John Locke banging on the hatch door, weak, vulnerable, looking for answers and reassurance when nothing more can be done.

The first test was in American studies. I thought that was going to be the hard one, but my moderate understanding of all the sources and some of the theories helped me through. I'll probably end up with a solid B in that class, assuming my paper is as good as I think and no better. The essay question on the test was tricky since it wanted you to cite specific sources off the top of your head, and most of the people I spoke to afterward didn't feel capable of doing that. My advantage was in doing the question about cinema of attractions; I just wrote a paper on that in Film Theory, so I know Gunning back and forth. The Identifications I was sketchier on.

After that class, I said goodbye to Daron. Daron is a girl I met late in second year when we were doing presentations in Shakespeare. I don't remember how or why I struck up a conversation with her, although I pretty much just explained it several paragraphs ago, so start there. She's a bit daffy, like Elaine Benes meets Annie Hall, but we always had a lot to say to each other about school stuff and life in general: she's a talker. Anyway, I thought she'd drift out of my life like so many people after that class, but I had two classes with her in semester 1 of year 3, then one the next semester too, and then at the beginning of this year she walked into this class. I told her this was the end of her walking into classes and seeing me there, since barring extreme circumstances, I'm already taking my last U of T courses.

An hour later was cinema studies. This was the exam that was harder than I thought, because it was a lot denser than I figured, considering it mainly engaged with the second half of the class. Honestly, it was repetitive as hell and frustrated me, since we kept running over the same few theorists. Bazin, Kracauer, Brecht, Kracauer, Adorno/Horkheimer, Bazin, Benjamin, Adorno/Horkheimer, Bazin, Brecht, Kracauer. Sheesh. Dulac got in there too somewhere.

I got irritated while writing my essay question because I had to attempt to reconcile Brecht's ideas with those of Bazin, and Brecht doesn't play well with others. Including cinema as a medium in general.

An hour after that was the Anthro exam. It was the one I studied most extensively, and probably for the best (although US Studies was most deserving of my attention given my inability to get readings done there). The exam basically amounted to a 100-question trivia quiz, and I knew what I knew and missed what I didn't, and thankfully one was much larger than the other.

I'm feeling writery. I really wanted to write during the last two weeks but I couldn't justify spending much time on anything that didn't explicitly apply to school. Life is like that sometimes, albeit less so in the near future with only three classes remaining on my schedule for next semester. I'm still technically enrolled in The Graphic novel, but I've heard it's overrated and the schedule time doesn't really work for me so I might as well let someone more eager take it.

So tomorrow, after I go pick up my paper from Brit Lit, that'll be it until January, and the work overload may commence. I'll find time, however, to get some writing in, especially as I have ideas to fix up my play and a novel I'd love to bite into (dumb, too much commitment, yet a possible avenue to success? Can't know if I don't write it.) I swore I'd get back to my webcomic in December but it's looking unlikely; not impossible, just unlikely, since I still like my ideas I just feel way too, way too, way too exhausted.

Time to get my first restful night seemingly all month.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

F: Fictional Photograph

2010-12-04T00:06:00.002-05:00

I've had it all on my shoulders lately.

It's early December. Work is getting more and more hefty. School is coming down all around me. Everything is exploding all the time. I don't think this blog's couple of readers will mind that I haven't had enough time to pull my head up and let it all out. And there's been a lot of it.

You can see me with my head in my hands running my fingers through my hair as I write this. The last couple of weeks feels like just a long chain of calamities, putting out fires and watching them start.

During the second semester of my third year, I realized working while being in school was like having two and a half jobs. Most classes want a little more attention than they feel deserving of. The store seems to need me all the time without consideration that I've got other shit going on in my life. And then there's all the commuting. Funny though. In year 3 semester 2, I felt more alive, more engaged, more energized than I ever had before: everything seemed to fall into place all the time. Now, well, I keep wanting to use that word calamity.

Truth be told, one paper a week in the month of November doesn't seem awful. I've had to skip a couple classes to get it done, but this is not a crime. I don't know how good any of the papers are. Well, I don't when I'm writing them, and I always doubt them until I get them back. I usually get 70's, and for a really strong effort I can get an 80, but who has the time? So I'm often worried the hammer's going to fall, some TA or Prof will see through my bullshit and give me the 65 I feel I deserve.

The film theory paper I handed in a couple weeks ago came back as a B, so it hasn't happened yet. Alex the TA made several accurate remarks about how the paper wasn't very ambitious. Time was, a note like that might've fired me up for this time but my brain is so cluttered and exhausted that we should all be happy I even got anything done. Back in August, I was wishing for this, but be careful and etc etc.

Next up was a British Literature paper that unintentionally and clumsily retreaded a lot of material from my first in-class assignment, so that's the next candidate. I wouldn't say that was a bad paper, just that I didn't use my space wisely. I had a whole motif I wanted to set up for my argument and by the time I had it laid out the paper was half-over.

This week it was US Studies, which had been a huge headache right up until I submitted it this afternoon at 3:15, and beyond. I'll explain. Despite the urgency of a half-credit course, US Studies has frankly been the class in which I have felt compelled to dog it. The readings are excessive, which leads to me not wanting to read them at all. The lectures, though informative, seldom feel relevant except as side notes. The tutorial is messy, although the TA has a decent enough sense of what he's supposed to do. I like it for a lot of reasons, but it happens to be the class in which nobody will notice if I'm not doing anything.

So for this research paper, we had a shitload of requirements, it's a 10-page paper, requiring a ton of outside sources. As a subplot, I misplaced my T-Card sometime this month and until I get it back, am not eligible to take books out from the library. Luckily, we have online resources, some of which are extremely useful.

The problem with the paper was in deciding what I wanted to say and how to say it. So this was one of the rare occasions where I actively went to my TA and consulted him. I'm not sure how much of his advice actually made it to my paper but I managed to get a lot of direction and a little motivation when I walked away. Unlike most papers I do, where work is done the night before and I spend a lot of time working out how much time I have to do it before class, I started on this son of a bitch Monday night. I kind of owed it to myself, having gotten Chantelle (who surely can't have an easier time than I do,) to cover my shift Monday night so I could work on it. I did spend a lot of that time dicking around, but by the end of the night I had worked with at least one important aspect of the paper, the close-reading of the artifact I had chosen.

The artifact in question was something I'd had a lot of experience with, the scene of Al Jolson performing My Mammy in The Jazz Singer (and by extension, the film itself.) I first saw it in Modern Drama before WWII last year, and then worked a lot with it in American Pop Music, so it was one of those things you randomly happen upon repeatedly in a single year. Having banked up a shitload of information about "notions of authenticity" from Pilzer's music class, (and not even really thinking about it until the TA used the word authenticity) I knew I had a lot to work with. I mean, it would've been nice if I'd managed to save any and all of those PDFs for that class, but luckily, there's no shortage of scholarship on this film, it being an important moment both in cinema history and race/immigrant relations.

The paper weighed on me heavily all week after that, knowing I'd have to work Thursday and therefore have limited time on Friday to finish it up. I wrote about half of it Wednesday night. This was motivated writing: coming out of British Literature, I probably could've tagged along to the bar with the girls I know in that class (no concrete offer was made but I hope I'm not kidding myself that they wouldn't have minded) but instead headed for home, to catch my train and get a good go of writing in before going to bed and going to work the next morning. I was so frustrated with myself at not biting the bullet and going to the bar that I pretty much forced myself to get that writing done, and while it wasn't as much as I'd hope, it was plenty, and after a short spurt on Thursday night, I finished it up this morning, with much satisfaction.

It's been tough, though, getting through these past couple of days. Been getting major stress headaches, been pissy, whiny, frustrated and having a hard time expressing myself. I don't want to complain... this is going to sound stupid because complaining is basically all I ever do, but I try not to complain too much about what's really bothering me unless I'm absolutely certain the person I'm complaining to wants to hear it. This is due largely to some adverse moments in high school, but it's my call to keep going with it. There's just so many quiet moments during the day when I just wanna break down, y'know? Just let it the fuck out. But I'm never really alone, never really safe, so it never happens. It also doesn't help that I haven't hung out with Manda much lately, between work and her dog.

I need someone in my life. No, I'm not starting this crap again, but everyone in my life seems so transient and compartmentalized, it would do much better if there was anyone who could make herself a permanent fixture.

The worst, most frustrating side-effect of my stress is that I've been getting all these ideas, all this stuff I want to write but have absolutely no time or wherewithal to do. I replotted an entire novel, something I've had in my head since like late 2006 but that only existed as fragments and broad strokes. Now it seems tangible, and fuck if it doesn't need to be written.

More on everything later. I've got a lot matter on the to-do list. I'm not even out of the woods yet, I have three tests on Tuesday (!!) to study for (?!). But I'm not obligated to write any more papers, so... yay. Trust me when I say this semester cannot end soon enough for me. Next semster -- my last as a fuckup undergrad -- will be a glide to the finish line. Well, it won't be easy, but it will be easier than this.

I hope.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

G: Intentionally unplugged

2010-11-21T22:21:00.003-05:00

I'm going to be around for a while tonight. I'm not going to school tomorrow, ostensibly to work on my English essay. It's not going to kill me: it's only 1200 words, which is about 4 pages double spaced. I know this because the draft I have saved on my harddrive of my Cinema Studies paper is 1200 words before I re-tooled the last paragraph and added the intro and conclusion; it reaches to the bottom of the 4th page.

The Cinema Studies paper was not very good. It was pretty much a high schooler's summary of the two theorists I was examining, with hardly a decent original or critical thought to be found. But I often find my own appraisal of situations like these to be a lot harder than the people whose opinions matter. I've been coasting -- utterly fucking coasting -- in my US studies class, because I have a basic understanding of the concept of historiography despite my utter lack of desire to keep up with readings. I am the worst student and the only reason I get away with it is because I get away with it. It's shaped like itself, I just am.

My last entry, I wrote before work on Friday in one of my apocalyptic panics, which lingered throughout the weekend and is temporarily subsiding. I get like this from time to time, where everything in the world is the end of all life on Earth, and it doesn't help that I often feel it in a literal sense. Everyone who can go through life in the 21st century without constantly freaking the fuck out about everything, I salute, because being at least partially aware of the looming dread hasn't helped me cope or to contribute to bettering society or fixing our problems one bit. It just makes me worry about things that are far far beyond my grasp. For a brief moment, some years ago, I thought the world was going to end in 2012, but I realized a little later that that would be too convenient, too easy, almost like cheating. Plus, there's no real problem with this theory: if you have to go, it's best to go with the rest of mankind in one giant death sentence handed down by an ancient Mesoamerican serpent bird god. But we know his isn't going to happen, because the future is not in some 5000-year-old New Year tradition. Shit, the people using the damn calendar felt comfortable enough to calculate dates beyond it. But enough about the apocalypse. I'm just getting riled up here.

I just can't shake this gloom even though life in general isn't that bad. The prospects aren't what I'd like, but as far as the present, it is what it is. That's the weird thing about life. Even if you happen to have an idea of where you'd like to end up, it's hard enough to draw up a route of how to get there.

I've been writing lately, between schoolwork, work and procrastination. I'm maybe too satisfied with myself for that, but I know many people who want to write but can't manage to work it into their lives. I've never had that problem because whatever else I've got going on often has to take a secondary place if I feel I need to write. This includes, hell, practically embodies schoolwork. I spent more energy and focus trying to connect characters in my play than I did trying to connect film theorists. That's what's real to me, not reality.

I once heard that the one true answer to "Why do you write?" is "Because I'd die if I didn't." That's silly. Don't be so quixotic. You'd be fine, just with a lot of pent-up shit that wasn't getting on the page. I could "not write" I just don't want to.

I recently got a Tumblr just to post things. A lot of old writing before I started generating new stuff. The occasional bigger-than-Twitter, smaller-than-SWP thought. I've posted a few old poems, and two new stories. Mainly, the people that follow me, (who found me through an Internet acquaintance, Phil Roland,) "like" in varying turns, the stuff I post. This girl like this, that guy likes that, some people like stuff more than others. One of my poems was reblogged, which in a nice feature. Very occasionally, there's a comment beyond "likes this." The point is, like Twitter, Tumblr is a networked blog site where I see entries by the same people and they see mine. I see the value and I enjoy it.

Blogger has tried similar options. I reject them. I don't follow anyone on here although it's fair game for someone to follow me. I realized earlier tonight that the benefit of SWP, and why I might be coming back around to it after forsaking it for Twitter and other services for a while, is that here I'm unplugged. I'm disconnected. I'm not part of the community, I just am, and people can visit and click away in isolation without a bunch of other sites being dragged into it. I don't just post links ever, I'm always writing these entries about my life and they rarely if ever have a point and I like it that way. Do you get it? I'm remembering what felt so instinctual in 2004.

My point is that it feels good knowing that this place, amidst the increasingly crowded, network-obsessed nature of the new Internets, I still have my little undiscovered country where a few people browse, realize the stupid crap I say, and leave, only occasionally commenting (not that I mind the comments.) It feels nice to have this. It's rare in this day and age that you really feel like you engage on that level.

If that makes any sense.

Take it home and keep on rockin
-Scotto

H: For no one

2010-11-19T12:28:00.002-05:00

I'm frustrated by my life and by the internet. I was staring blankly at a webpage a few minutes ago wondering what the hell I was doing. It was a rare moment of recognition, the likes were often written about by Kracauer and the other Frankfurt writers. If that reference doesn't make sense to you, don't worry, I only used it to prove to myself I understood anything about what I've learned.

Maybe when I get out of University, I'll start living. I won't settle for a meaningless job that pays the bills and I won't forget this ambition I've had since I was a teenager to get paid to write. The shitty thing about my having this ambition is that every time I read or see something I like it gets me fucking depressed I couldn't think of it, and then I think of the things I have been able to think of and I kinda hate them because I know how I thought of them.

I never learned to prepare for the future, only to delay it. I don't regret going to University, although I wonder if I would've done anything more productive with my time if I hadn't, or if I'd just end up still working at the mall 4 years later.

I'm frustrated with this new play. I'm frustrated by the fact that writing doesn't come as naturally to me at 23 as it did at 16, although what I do write is at least better. But being able to think harder and more critically also places more roadblocks. I was more satisfied with myself then, although I'm definitely just romanticizing the period.

The application for the Fringe Festival was due on the 15th and we didn't submit. The play, as is, isn't ready, but I knew that and still wanted to submit it. But I wasn't going to submit it if Cary didn't want to, and he's getting major-ass cold feet, possibly because, draft after draft, it's still just "getting there." And $700 is a hefty pricetag for a play you're not sure you're pleased with.

But I regret not hitting submit. Cary wants to go back to the Hamilton BBF Emerging Artist series. I don't love that idea. I liked the idea of doing it in Toronto where it could be seen and where, yes, money was involved. This feels like going backwards, which I guess is an odd thing to complain about when you just admitted to romanticizing your crappy high school writing. But if I could combine my self-assurance in my writing from back then (and if nothing else it does feel like I was self-assured in my writing) with a more practical avenue for theatre today, I'd be happy. Happier, anyway.

I'm being a bit unfair to Hamilton. I have many great memories of that show, but I know you can never go back and I wish, oh God do I wish we had pulled the trigger on this Fringe thing.

But all that's assuming I ever finish this play to a point where it's both funny and emotionally satisfying. I suck.

There you go, kids. Classic SWP.
Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

I: It's everything and nothing more

2010-11-17T01:13:00.002-05:00

It's after 1 AM on a Tuesday night and I'd probably be better served by going to bed, but it's been a weird week and I've earned my blogging.

Unfortunately, going a week without writing in here always means that so much noise has piled up in my life that nothing seems so significant anymore. so I rant about nothing in particular until I feel the need to stop because I'm not getting anywhere. So here it is.

Last Wednesday I gave my group presentation on the Restoration Theatre and the actress. We didn't really co-ordinate our efforts that well. I rambled a bit, mostly recounting my information off the top of my head. I'm not an accomplished speech-giver and I feel more comfortable when I'm attempting to gather my thoughts at once. It may not be any more effective, but it's certainly more satisfying.

After my brief talk situating the Restoration in the historical context -- with a brief rundown on the English Civil War, Oliver Cromwell and Charles I & II, I showed a clip from the movie Stage Beauty. When I signed up for this presentation I had that movie in mind (I must've still been in high school when I saw it.) It was nice that the week before, when the Prof called us together to discuss the presentation, she mentioned the movie. As a historical document, it hasn't got much value, but it made for a nice interruption of the usually dry tone of these presentations. I showed a clip of Billy Crudup teaching Claire Danes how to act as Desdemona. The girl who talked after me went way too long and in far too much detail. I felt super-awkward standing next to her the rest of the presentation.

Afterward I went back to the two girls I've made friends with (dude you should totally hit that) and was complimented for including the clip. Between the three of us, only one had read the play we were supposed to discuss, so she led us through a primer in our mini group discussion and we managed to come up with some pretty convincing material. I'm convinced I've accidentally become one of the Prof's favourite students. She calls other people by my name, and gave me a rather good mark on what I would consider a rather sloppy in-class essay about Henry IV. Well, maybe it being in-class she cut me some slack.

Thursday, I closed with Ryann and Dana. Work is getting weird. I'm pretty sure Karen is bitter at me for some issues regarding the previous week where I was in charge of New Release night and we had to stay an hour late. It was a mess and she's not letting me forget it. (Of course, it's not entirely my fault, we were supposed to have an extra person -- guess who -- but am I going to tell her that? Fuck no. Life's hard enough.)

The weekend was a drag. I put off working on my Film Theory essay until late, per my usual MO. Maybe I'm getting too old to be such a slacker. Maybe there's just too much nonsense in my life to really care. I don't know. If I had more time I'd go on and on but the later it gets the more desperate I am to wrap this up.

Saturday, dad and I finally got rid of the TV. During the week some hooligans (HOOLIGANS!!) had moved it over to a neighbour's lawn, so I had to move it back to the backyard. Then dad had to borrow Alex's truck and we hauled the TV down to the dump. Actually, that was all rather easy, much easier than dad's earlier attempt to transport the big-ass CRT TV in his Toyota (although that was a nice thought since it was spur of the moment.)

Sunday night is when I finally got around to that paper, after combing my articles the previous night for relevant quotes. It wasn't that hard to put together, although with the work I put in I doubt if the mark will be stellar. Don't care. not really engaged with the material. Bummed out. Just wanna be done. Can't believe I signed up for this shit. what is this I don't even.

Taylor, my Omegle friend, is back on the internet after a several-months banishment. It's nice to have her back on a semi-consistent basis.

I finished the film paper on Monday morning. Monday night I was in charge of new releases again. We got out at ten. As we were walking out, the phone started ringing and I suspect it was Karen calling in case we were still working on it. I'm hoping that the knowledge that I'm capable of doing this right (albeit with one more person than we used to need back when it was me, Adam/Jeff and Alan/Gus) will get her to cut me a bit more slack because I can really see her opinion of me slipping. It's hard to keep things sane, too, because while she rarely remembers the good she never forgets the bad. I can be great at my job 99% of the time but the one night I screw up becomes her entire perception of me.

And I take my shit seriously.

It rained tonight on my way home.

I started a Tumblr. I mainly uses it to repost links and old writing, although it was the primary medium for a new story I just wrote, the first new thing I've done in a while. It came to me while I was not paying attention in US Studies.

I'm not a very good student. The last assignment I handed in came back pretty much saying "It's good, but you did it wrong. 77%." I can live with that.

More and more I drift away.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

J: Get excited for the darkness

2010-11-10T15:29:00.001-05:00

Oh, brother, what a life.

I'm taking up space at Pratt library right now between classes. I should be eating and reading the Country Wife for my Brit Lit class. I should be preparing my presentation or doing anything but Goddamn I haven't blogged in over a week, been meaning to get this one out for days.

I got sidetracked. I had a little venture for this year's NaNoWriMo despite or perhaps because I knew I wouldn't be able to complete it. It ate up a lot of my free time before I finally recognized the foolishness and tapped out at 11,000 words. NaNo is for people with nothing else to be writing and I'm still working on this play. Cary and I have had a bit of discussion over where to present it, Cary proposed doing the U of T drama fest but I haven't heard anything about that and even so the applications for Fringe are coming due so we'd better get out shit together.

Either way. I don't mind, so long as it gets out there. But I do need to perform some serious rewrites because there are parts that work well and parts that don't. Then again, Half-Past didn't entirely work but people (except my brother and one of my aunts) don't tend to focus on what doesn't work, I guess because unlike those two they don't know what else I'm capable of. Shit, I don't even know what I'm capable of.

The weekend went well. It began with a bit of relief as Penny called me on Wednesday to tell me I wouldn't be needed at Dorval. That had been a source of angst just earlier that morning when I looked at my schedule, with all the shit I had coming up, and thought how my life isn't my own anymore and I don't have time for anything, even important things, if I'm working 16 hours on two days I'd otherwise have free.

So she left a message to tell me it was fine, and I called back not doing a very good job hiding my relief and joy. the rest of the weekend went well although I did, as predicted, get called on to fill in for Jess on Saturday. Oh Jess. When DO you work.

Thursday I opened and met the new temp, Shannon, who is like Dana a transplant from Superstore. I like having new coworkers with experience, it gets through that awkward phase of having to explain everything to them and basically the only problem is making sure they know where everything is in the store. Oh, and the always-present "YOUR store does this, OUR store did that." Well, this is your store now. C'mon.

So she and I opened and the morning went well and really the weekend was a breeze although there was a lot of busy shit with Eric coming back for his birthday and all the everything involved got me real tired for that so Sunday night wasn't as productive as it could've been.

Monday wasn't, either. I had Monday and Tuesday off, and Monday half of it was spent with a guy mom had called to look for dead animals. There's been a phantom odor emanating from the furnace but he said it wasn't a dead animal, although we do probably have mice. Maybe we shouldn't have dragged out feet on replacing Rocky.

I worked that night, new releases, which was a lot less stressful with four people instead of three, being able to pre-strike and get out at 10. Karen made a snide remark about how long it took the previous week, although I don't think she meant it maliciously I still found it a little galling, since we were shorthanded. (Gus was supposed to close with us, but Karen asked Gus to take her shift earlier in the day, but didn't take his... so yeah.)

Tuesday was a bit better since I eventually buckled down and did my work for the presentation I have today. Still though, I could've done a lot more and am still considerably behind on shit. I have reviews, I have readings, I have play revisions. I don't know, man.

I've gotta get off the twitter. I've gotta get off the blogs. I've gotta find some time to get my shit together or it's never done get done.

Well, that ain't happening. Guess I'll continue trying to do everything at once.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

K: Imagine the ground beneath your feet

2010-10-31T23:38:00.005-04:00

Lately it looks like my blogging is confined mainly to the weekends and that special time midday on Wednesdays between classes when I ought to be studying but am easily distracted.

I guess this is fair. A lot of my life is repetitive, and endlessly recounting the story of how I got up and went to school or got up and went to work would be dumb. I could tell you over and over again how I'm not getting anything out of my classes this year and am desperate for it to end. I could tell you how tense I am that the holidays are coming up and suddenly I dread the HMV holiday season (having gotten so comfortable with the stable pace for the other 10 months of the year.)

This weekend was a pretty stupid one for me in good and bad ways. It began on Wednesday night when Cary and I went to a preview screening of Due Date. I asked him along when Eric confirmed he couldn't, because like a person who is not an idiot, he is working on school stuff.

The movie was pretty good, and I'll have a review up on CXPulp in time for its release. Cary and I hung out a bit afterward, talked over our new play and our old one. I was almost done with the new play at the time and as of writing this I am just at the phase where I could send it to him but still want to tweak it. In the course of our conversation, he invited me to his Law School Halloween party that Friday night, which was good because I had nothing else lined up and a streak of 3 really interesting Halloween parties in previous years. I was not looking forward to foregoing any sort of drunken partying.

My costume choice was intentionally awkward. I wanted to go as Scott Pilgrim, who pretty much just dresses like a normal guy (for the costume, I bought an authentic shirt from the movie which can now be worn as everyday apparel,) although my attempts to round out the costume with some wristbands came to naught. Do they still sell those? Kershaw had so many back in the day.

I also debated about whether it would be a good idea to bring a Guitar Hero guitar to round out the costume, since he's a bass player and video game enthusiast. I decided against it, since I'm not big on costume props, and the cord would've probably been unruly. With or without the toy guitar, people wouldn't have been able to look at me and say "You're Scott Pilgrim!" so the effort wouldn't been pointless. Also, I shaved my goatee for the costume, but if you were just meeting me for the first time, you wouldn't know that.

The last couple days of the week were spent working. Thursday, a normal shift. Friday, I was called in to receive with Jeff, a skill I learned the Monday before. We got so many boxes that Gus asked me and Jeff if we'd stay late, but since I was all in "I'm not even supposed to be here" mode, and desperate to get to Toronto, I declined. Jeff did too.

I do a lot for that store. I'm a part-time employee who works 30-hour weeks with an 80% course load at University. I'm losing my shit enough as it is. I need to assert myself, and leaving on time rather than staying late, to the detriment of the store, was my way of doing that. I needed to get home, eat pizza, then go to Toronto and drink.

I got to Cary's at approximately 8:30 after stopping at the Union Station LCBO for two tall boys of Stella. I arrived at his front door at exactly the same moment as his friend Katie, who is in med school. We went up to his apartment to pre-drink, have some laughs, not-play Extreme Jenga (that is where the blocks are slanty-shaped. Quite impractical, we never got it set up) and take pictures of me pretending to wail on Cary's guitar.

Cary in costume as a "Chattel Rancher," Katie as a Loofah (I was pleased to recognize it immediately, some had to guess and others didn't get it.) They compared notes on buying lengths of rope for their costumes. We walked over to Museum station and took the train up to Dupont for further pre-drinking at Cary's friend's house (also named Katie, she was dressed as Waldo.) I chit chatted with some of the law school kids, had the usual Halloween costume talks. I do love Halloween for that. People acting in character, guessing each other's costumes, complimenting each other, bonding... it's nice.

After a little while, we walked down to the Law building for the main party. It was actually quite a trek, but luckily my costume was amenable to a jacket and hoodie. Cary introduced Katie and me around, more costume talk, and a lot of attempts to talk over the music resulting in hoarse voices.

I ran into Anisah, who was dressed as Wonder Woman. Attempts to talk were quashed by the music. Then Katie met up with a girl she knew, who was apparently dating someone Cary knew. The girl had brought her sister along and a giant 5-way dance scene ensued. It was a disaster, at least at my end of the bargain, particularly when I grabbed the siste rand started swaying with her. Well she seemed to enjoy it, but awkwardness can be a powerful thing. Oh, and the sisters were black, which I know I shouldn't mention since I don't wanna make a racial project out of it -- I mean, it's the 21st century, you'd think I wouldn't feel more pressure to dance well with black girls than with white ones.

The party ended around 1 and we dispersed. The three of us went back to Cary's place, where Katie fell asleep on the futon, and as to the remainder of the sleeping arrangements I'd rather not divulge.

I got back to Oakville, a crick in my neck and bleary-eyed, after a bacon and egg breakfast from Cary. I went in to work at 2, as a favour to Chantelle and tried my best not to look or feel zombified. Jess actually asked me if I was gonna yak, to which I replied, "Jess, I'm 23. I do my yaking when I'm actually drunk."

More later, it's actually several days after Halloween but I didn't want to break the temporal thread of this entry. I'd better go do some reading.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

L: A half hour and a half

2010-10-27T14:17:00.002-04:00

I had half a post typed up, maybe even a full one. It was depressing. It was about trying to get some alone time -- like, to get away from society and family and the crowd and everything. That's something I want, but can't have. Maybe at home, if B. has gone out or I shut myself up in my room (seems an obvious answer but I rarely do that.) Just to conk out -- not for sleep but for meditative purposes -- and be alone.

It was not a lengthy post but I tried, in a rambling way, to get to the bottom of some of my anxieties. Some of them are way bigger than "what am I gonna do with my life?" Everybody has a grim outlook for the future, but the days keep rolling by and the changes are slow.

Maybe global warming is the ultimate natural selection. That's kind of a bummer, but only because we're more responsible for it than we would be for, say, and asteroid killing everything. I used to be downright terrified of such an event, probably because it was all the rage in the late 90's, from the famous Simpsons episode Bart's Comet to the Bruce Willis movie (or the Elijah Wood movie.) This nervousness has followed me to adulthood (if I'm an adult) but transferred to other, more au courant apocalypse scenarios, since nothing ranks significantly on the Torino Scale lately. But mention global warming and watch me get fidgety.

In a small number of paragraphs, I have gotten far from my original point, which is good since I didn't want to be there anyway. My main point is that I'd like a few moments in the near future to be able to gather my thoughts and be by myself. Preferably not in a train or in class.

This is not my favourite entry ever. It's rather dire, and may serve to transfer some of my own anxieties onto my readers, even though getting it out there has at least made me feel a bit better. We're all stuck on this planet and I'd like to do what I can to take better care of it. I'd rather not have the rest of society sounding the panic alarm in my ear for the rest of my life. But such is the condition of the 21st century.

So you might think from this writing that I'm depressed. There must be a sort of hundred-yard stare in my recent interactions with people, co-workers and friends can often see it. Like I said, it's mainly just a need to get back to me.

But all I can do right now is keep on rockin'
-Scotto

M: Every sound on Earth

2010-10-24T22:20:00.002-04:00

It's nearly midnight on Sunday night and I'm sitting on the computer thinking of friends.

Something hit me in the middle of this week, drudging back up old anxieties. In these apocalyptic-seeming times, it can be hard to keep your shit. Wednesday was rough. Makes me regret ever missing school. Here at the end, it feels like dropping out and moping around the house -- only breaking to go to work and maybe occasionally, if I'm lucky, do a little writing -- is the only answer. I wouldn't be happy then either, still longing for that missing something, and in that case owing shitloads of money for an education I did not even complete. I can't over-dramatize it, though. Seems like lately, hardly a week goes by where I don't obsess over the sordid state of my life and let it ruin an entire day. I shouldn't be so hard on myself. I'm doing what I can.

So on Wednesday, when I was feeling low, I went and saw Vasa. I have more or less a standing agreement to hang out with her on Wednesday afternoons when neither of us are in classes, but it was only the second time I'd been over. Admittedly, our interactions have gotten less active lately, as she's mainly holed up in her room and I join her and we talk about school and life and she brings me up to speed on her life, also known as my new favourite show. (It had a really good season premiere, but the follow-up wasn't as notable.)

A little later, I got a message from Joe. I mostly only see him when he has a show on, but in addition to seeking cover suggestions, he reached out for a hangout. The cover thing was a cool idea of his to kick himself out of his own creative rut -- asking friends like me to suggest a few different songs for him to cover, and he'd pick one of each person's suggestions. I gave him a few varied selections, including The Coral's Liezah, Dark End of the Street (sending him the Richard and Linda Thompson version,) Take Me To the River (citing both Talking Heads and Al Green), Joel Plaskett's Through & Through & Through (unrealistic, I suppose, for a mere acoustic arrangement) and the song of mine he ultimately picked, David Gray's Babylon. It's a nice song, which often comforts me when I'm anxious or upset (let go your heart, let go your head, and feel it now.) Like Overkill by Colin Hay, it's one of those songs whose outright simplicity and sweetness is a pure virtue. It wasn't all that surprising to see Joe pick it, given how comfortably it sits in his style.

Anywayzx, in addition to the cover request, he wanted to see if a hangout was possible, and of course it was. We ended up meeting up on Saturday, which was convenient as Manda was busy with her puppy (or so I assume, she never clarified but that's usually what's going on with her.) Imagine what's going to happen if she ever procreates. I'll have to give up on ever seeing her! Kidding, they allow babies at the mall, although sometimes I think they shouldn't.

Joe and I sat around, talking about our attempts to make our way in the world, his music, my writing. Journalism. Jobs. He brought along some resumes, since part of the premise of our hangout was that he wouldn't mind coming to HMV to work as a holiday temp. I told him I'd do what I could to make that happen, since he'd be as good as anyone else in the role, and I'd like to be able to work with a friend. So I brought him down to the store and introduced him to Karen. Karen noted we'd taken on probably all the temps we needed, but I said, "Well, just in case." She seemed happy to at least entertain the notion that she might eventually hire him, although I think none of us is necessarily counting on it. He also handed a resume in at EB Games, where we later wandered.

We had some good talks, it was nice to catch up, to share points of view, to commiserate.

Lately, I'm dragging. I'm unengaged. There are things I am aware of myself not doing but can't bring myself to correct. Papers coming due, readings I don't do. Wednesday, as I was having a meltdown inside, it was hard to be moved by my TA when he kinda sniped at us for being unengaged. He claimed that most of the anonymous feedback he got, when he asked us for it a few weeks back, said that things were fine. But we were all very quiet and unresponsive. I can't be sure, but I think I wrote something on my feedback sheet saying he needed to do a better job guiding conversations. I don't think he gets it. I don't think he's a good TA. Nice guy, not a good TA. Last year I had 4 classes, none with TA's, I was happy, I was engaged. This year I have three TA's, and I would rate them as bad, okay, and quite all right (Film, US Studies, Anthro.) My Anthro TA knows her stuff, and she runs the classroom well, although it always seems to be disconnected from the lecture, this is not her doing. For her part, she's peppy and doesn't get too visibly annoyed with the guy in class who is always bugging about shit.

The US Studies TA is inconsistent. Maybe that's just because I am inconsistently engaged in class. This week we had a guest lecture from Rob King, and I was happy about that. The TA, like most TA's (in the soft sciences and non-sciences) often seems nonplussed. The discussions are always lively.

It's rare that I've ever looked at a TA I had and thought "What a great job he's doing!" In second year, there were a couple of film TA's who seemed to get it. They don't have enviable jobs. They have to mediate between the professor and the student. They're students themselves. Often, the students are like me, uninterested in discussion, unsure what to talk about or ask about.

It can't be easy to TA for film theory. I don't want to be there and I suspect many classmates agree. The readings are onerous, the films weighty. The material is so abstract. It's everything I hate, and I just kinda got trapped into it and by the time I realized what the deal was, it was too late to back out and still graduate. If I drop it, I am still technically a full-time student (with a shitload more free time) but I have to make it up with SOMETHING next year. I haven't ruled this out, but still: wurrrgh.

We all have problems. I gave myself a Charlie Horse Saturday night that lasts right up to the present moment. It was hard getting to sleep or getting up the next morning. Eff emm ell.

The good thing about the weekend has been that I got some writing done, blasting through a bad patch of writer's block. I just couldn't reconcile how to launch from one thing to the other in this script, and though I may not utterly love what I ended up with, just getting it out on paper is half the battle. On that note, I think I'll take a look at it and see what more I can do.

Or maybe just load the dishwasher and make a sandwich for tomorrow. What more can be done? It's after 1:30.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

N: We all have hoodies

2010-10-18T01:17:00.001-04:00

The remnants of a post marked October 14, 2010, 1:17 AM:

This past Saturday night, I saw many of the old High School faces for Thanksgiving. I didn't have to feel guilty about not going to North Bay, because Dad didn't go anyway because of Jon's wedding. And I wouldn't have felt guilty anyway, because I made a pledge to myself that the last time we saw Granddad would be the last time I went there under normal circumstances.

But that's getting all circuitous. I had my most relaxing weekend in months following a rather hectic week. School is tough lately because it's very hard to focus on anything when you're constantly thinking "I don't want to be here at all." It isn't that I don't want to be at school, it's that I'm constantly second-guessing my ability to withstand the courses I have inflicted on myself. But I haven't got much choice in the matter, especially at this late date. What's done is done.

I must've gotten distracted. I find myself balancing my to-do list very haphazardly lately. Blogging is an obvious choice to fall by the wayside. Last night (Saturday night) would've been a decent choice as I did not go out and there was nothing on TV, but alas, Minesweeper called.

I nearly just opened a beer, but I don't want to distract myself with a buzz that'll keep me up but also divide my attention. Plus I'm running low. Tonight I've been listening to She & Him Vol 2, which I got from the recently-changed listening posts at work (very patiently so that I didn't have to pay for it) which led me to the Monkees anthology, which always gets me to thinking about that time around Christmas 2000, when I first got it, and time seemed to take forever to pass, and I was learning all these amazing songs I'd never heard. Seems like I bring out the Anthology about 3 or 4 times a year. Sad, as it used to be well-represented on my iPod in the days before I had rebuilt my mp3 collection and things needed to be cut. But even now that I have nearly four times the size to play with, it feels like these tunes are best kept for reflective occasions when I feel like mentally sending myself back to the living room at River Oaks Blvd and Grade 8.

So Thanksgiving. Yes. It was a nice casual evening of the WOSS class of 2005, and a few from 2007 (Chris, Adam, Cassie, Laura,) sitting around talking shit over. Catching up with the usual conversations, which are starting to take on new permutations now that so many of us (myself not included) have moved on past school and into the realm of real work. Terrifying. Cary summed school up as "the comfort of the womb." He spent a year outside it and is glad to be back. Learning law. What a cop out.

I'm glad that these get-togethers are not just shoddy, fairly-depressing remembrances of past times, although there's some of that. We're all current people, with opinions and feelings about our present lives. Kate talks about her work as a music teacher. I trade journalism opinions with Bryan Myers. CB recounts his latest injuries. The occasional flashback to Earnest of 12 Angry Men occurs, but it's mostly organic. One of the liveliest conversations we had was on the nature of chips. Vanessa had brought plain ruffled chips, wanting something people wouldn't complain about. I suggested probably the most preferable, generic choice would be Tostitos Rounds (not scoops) with salsa. She countered back, what kind of salsa? Mild, medium, hot? I admit, it got controversial as Cary advocated for at least medium, and I personally don't think people will care as long as they've got some sauce on their chip. It's all about texture. This conversation, I may reiterate, was quite impassioned. There was also a contingent for All Dressed Chips.

The night settled down and we were requested by Linda (who of course was only too happy to host us with veggies and melons and brie and other stuff.) to move downstairs. It quieted down, and then people started to file out, and I stuck behind with Cary to finish my drink and watch an episode of Boston legal, and briefly fall asleep on his couch.

It was a nice weekend. Sunday was a bit hectic as I was working with Chantelle and Dana and we had to set up new releases for Tuesday due to the long weekend. I suspect this is part of the reason our conversion suffered. I don't want to believe it had anything to do with us switching the music out (gasp!) for a 90's mix that people actually seemed to dig. Definitely gave the store a different feel.

Monday, the family came over. Cam was very invested in his DS, so we played Mario Kart. He only gets to play it on weekends, which is to my advantage. They were also pushing magazine subscriptions. Man, I may have done the almonds and the nanaimo bars and whatever else, but at least people can eat those. Magazines? Fine, give me Toronto Life. Later in the evening, Cam got more into a playing mood and had us play babysitter, which he always insists on reconstructing previously enjoyable play sessions. This is the type of behaviour Manda described as "Weird and serial-killery." Thanks, Manda. I as going to say "douchey," but I guess it's inappropriate for whatever reason to refer to something your 7-year-old cousin does as that. I've said this any number of times: I can't wait until those kids are awkward teens and they prefer to avoid us.

The week was therefore abbreviated. I found out I did rather well on my US Assignments. I can feel pretty at ease with myself knowing that, since if I do badly in other classes I can make it up next semester but here I've got only 'till December. The precis I felt I did well on, and was counting on it as justification for skipping class (repeatedly) to do. Apart from a few totally-accurate criticisms, it landed somewhere in the 80's. The quiz, which was only 10 questions, True/False and Multiple Choice, I got 8/10, which is remarkable considering that maybe half of my correct answers were informed ones. The rest were educated guesses. The one "write a sentence" question was a definition of "Epistemology," which was crossover from my theory class. I don't even know if we really went over it in this class. It seems like we didn't, since like 3 people, myself included, got it.

The only other big thing that happened this week was that I touched some bones in my anthropology class. Uh, that sounds dirty. What I mean is, my TA gave us all bones. No, wait.

Skeletons. Yes. we learned about skeletons, and assembled one on a table. Partially. Very vaguely. We had gotten a stern warning last week that we were to treat the bones with respect. I couldn't resist snarking, but I like to think I wasn't putting the bones in any danger or really misbehaving. They take their bones very seriously, as well they should.

We were in a group, I got to interact with others, which is nice. Nicest was the fact that the dude in that class we don't like wasn't in our group. He's always asking questions and getting belligerent about minor details. Before class, one girl asked if we could share a textbook, so she was sitting next to me and passed me a note in reference to the guy's curious habit of referring to our TA as "Professor."

Meeting people was actually the theme of the week. For the last few weeks in English Lit, I've been sitting behind these two girls who seemed pretty cool, but I wasn't going to go creeping my way into their conversation. I did manage to get a comment toward them here and there, but that happens anyway. Seeing these girls, and feeling my inability to break the ice, was actually the catalyst for a miniature self-hating rant the other week about how I'll probably never meet anyone new ever again and I'm basically screwed.

That's at least partly still true, but this week we had an in-class writing assignment (at which I fucking sucked, which is sad because it was on the one piece I really gave a damn about so far, the "I know you all" speech from 1 Henry IV.) One of the girls, who has a massive main of braids, was sitting in my row behind her friend. I sat two seats over from her and we mutually used to middle desk for our stuff. A few comments, comparing notes, etc later, and I've made their acquaintances and even walked with one to the subway. It was a minor win, and of course it feels dorky to go to lengths to recount it here (when doesn't it?) but I needed it. Just to go for it.

This weekend was relatively quiet compared to other recent ones. I had coffee with Manda for the first time in seemingly years, but in reality just weeks. I broke a serious bout of writer's block on my play. The deadline for that is coming soon. Manda was very excited for some revelations she had about her book project, which at one point was OUR book project, but I ceded it to her when she was more interested than I was.

Really, it doesn't fit into my intended oeuvre. And she has many ideas that don't jive with what I would've done, but are good in their own right. She has a vision and it's better I let her cultivate that.

We talked retail, we talked weddings (and whether I ever expected to go to one again.) Etc etc.

I'm being underbooked. Me with my keys and nowhere to use 'em. I'll probably put in some more time at Dorval before they close up.

I'd love to sit around pontificating about the everythnigness of it all and give hints as to my emotional/mental state (surprisingly ok) but it's late and I really just wanted to get this all out there. Cheers.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

O: In constant contact

2010-10-09T00:29:00.004-04:00

It isn't that my life has rapidly changed in a short span of time, but it is recently that the effects of a small number of subtle changes have been felt.

I used to be able to vent myself to a certain number of people on a fairly regular basis. I was having coffee with Amanda every week, I could always count of Taylor to show up on MSN to distract me from my life. Circumstances have kept me from hanging out with Amanda on a consistent basis for the past few months. Taylor's been barred from the internet except in rare extenuating circumstances. When I'm bummed, I have nobody but SWP to hear me out.

This past Wednesday, in British Literature, I came to the conclusion that it's now pretty unlikely I'll ever meet "the one." I hate to sound melodramatic, but it seems pretty likely I'll die alone, and unloved, sooner than later. I've been at U of T for three years now, have made no headway in finding a girl I really like. Never meet people at work, just customers in transience and girls I don't wanna get involved with for various reasons. I'm not good at meeting people, and when I do, I don't capitalize. I'm stuck in my own head and I can't compromise and make it work in those rare cases where it does seem like I'm getting on with a girl. I suck.

Of course, I can't let any of this discourage me.

I've been hating on myself a lot lately. It doesn't feel good but it's hard to resist the urge because I am alone with my thoughts so damn much of the time. I've been doing this to myself for years and it's worse now that I'm trying to be all these things, employee, student, writer, person. I complain a lot. I am not happy about it, but it is the way it is, and can't be helped. But when it's time to deal with others, I do my best to put my shit away.

So this is the week that was.

Monday I skipped class to work on my USA Response Paper that didn't even get done. Not because I slacked. In fact, I went over my chosen article with a fine tooth come to get as much out of it and make notes so that I could do it more effectively. It's just that that took so long that by the time I was done the article it was about time to go to work. It was my first shift closing as keyholder and I was really psyched for getting to be in charge for a few hours, even if it involved doing new releases. The only other people scheduled were Jeff and Ryann, a new girl who is transitioning over from Dorval when they close at the end of the month. I met her briefly at the end of my shift and we really seemed to get on well. On the Monday, Karen ended up staying nearly until close just to finish up some bullshit stocking in preparation for a corporate visit, which really harshed my mood, because I had no idea when she'd be gone and I don't like to not know things like that.

In the end, though new releases took a bit longer than usual, we got them done in good time. Ryann's cool, and in fact reminds me a lot of Alyssa when I first met her. Knowledgeable about very unexpected stuff, and with a good sense of humour.

The week continued to be hectic. There was a quiz in US Studies that I did badly on. I skipped film AGAIN to finish that paper, which I was not happy to do. Then learned a lot of stuff about DNA in Anthropology, which sounded very familiar from Grade 9 Science. More sophisticated, but familiar.

Wednesday was a slog. It was particularly bad because I'd packed my Brit Lit anthology in my backpack, expecting to have time to go over it, and failed to realize that the reading was an online reading this week. So not only was I sore, but uninformed for the lecture. I very nearly left at the break, but decided I'd skipped out a bit too much this week.

Thursday I opened the store for the first time. Not as epic as I'd imagined. some paperwork, some solitude, then some standing around trying to figure out stuff for others to do. It was only me and Chantelle in, we played Gus and Karen, as those two were off doing respective things. The day breezed by. Then today Chantelle and I opened again and it was all very routine. Since that's the usual routine on Fridays, with Karen coming in at 1, they're usually pretty good.

But anyway, this whole scene is starting to wear on me, and I need to make time to write this weekend, or it might just never happen. Amidst all family obligations and everything.

Herp derp derp.

Keep on rockin
-Scott

P: Time slows down where she is

2010-10-04T16:18:00.002-04:00

It was an exceptionally eventful weekend and indeed the last week and the current week are all starting to run together in a nosebleed-inducing mindfuck of mental exhaustion. Or something.

Friday, I got the news I had sort of been anticipating for a while now, that I was to become a keyholder at HMV. It's not at all surprising, although part of me suspected the circumstances would never come up that it was needed.

I will have worked there for a year in a couple weeks. I'm better at it now than I was then, as is the case when you do the same thing for a while and learn better ways. I am still not sure I'm worthy of the responsibility that goes along with a set of keys. Or whether it's a good idea in general for me to have that on my shoulders, with my school and everything. But all these abstract musings about it are pointless now, since it's happening. It's needed.

With Andrea still off at Dorval (and eager to get back) and Gus going on vacation this week, Karen and Chantelle can't handle all the key responsibilities. So Saturday morning, I came in early and was trained how to do the paperwork. It's not that complicated, it's just a lot of stuff to keep straight in my head. I was feeling stressed Saturday because I was also taking care of some customer returns, which didn't always go smoothly. But I'm learning.

Saturday night, right after work, Dad, Eric and I went out to Hamilton to meet with the Ouimettes for dinner in celebration of Jon's upcoming wedding, to which I was not invited. We went to Turtle Jack's, had dinner, Dad went over the usual stupid embarrassing story he always runs through when talking to anybody on the topic of me.

We then went over to a Go Karting place, which is something that has been in the works for a while. We had to wait a while, during which time Eric and I played a generic shooter in their arcade, and observed their wonderfully out-dated jukebox selection, which included most of the first 7 Big Shiny Tunes, MuchDance CDs from the same era, as well as generic compilations, best-ofs by whichever artists (including Aerosmith's Big Ones, a by-now obsolete collection of their Geffen years,) and of course Much Dance Mix '95, which included the Macarena, Saturday Night by Whigfield and What Is Love by Haddaway, and was a must for ever grade 3 in my year.

I mean come on, it had the fucking Macarena!

We eventually got down to business when Crystal and her husband Andy showed up. We did a test-run, during which I went gingerly around the corners and let everyone pass me. At our first stop, I neglected to brake and rear-ended Eric (who then rear-ended dad. Whoops.) The 7 of us (me, Eric, Dad, Jon, Andy, Henry, and Jon's future father in law Matt) did 20 laps on the first two races. I came in 5th both times. In the first race, I was taking a turn pretty wide and ended up fish-tailing. Initially, I thought it was my own fault so I went more gingerly afterward, but then I found out it was because Henry had bumped me, so I got a little less timid in the next race. The others -- aside from me, dad and Eric -- were pretty aggressive since they were more experienced. Eric came in last because he just didn't have the heart to cut anyone off, and Dad came in 6th probably, in his own words, due to being the heaviest. The last go-round was most laps in 12 minutes. I got to start in the front and ended coming in second due to some incredibly reckless, opportunistic driving that caused me to throw my shoulder out on a few nasty turns. I was sore the next day. Man, keeping that pedal down when your legs ain't long is tough!

The next night, after work, was dad's birthday and I was finally able to relax after a taxing four days. Today I skipped class to work on a paper. It's still not done but the research is in place and it shouldn't be too-too hard for me to finish on time. Well anyway I'm boned and I probably could have worked harder to make it work but this is how it worked out.

...I guess that's my way of saying I have to go to work soon. I'm closing tonight (much easier than opening) and then opening on Thursday. A few weeks ago, Cary asked me what was most likely, me getting married, me getting a girl pregnant, or me being made the manager of an HMV. I still think all three are entirely unlikely, but I guess we're getting a bit closer to that last one.

And I hope to stay at this distance, or maybe even backtrack, for a long while.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

Q: Here when you need it.

2010-09-30T22:38:00.002-04:00

I had a feeling yesterday was going to be a good day. I had absolutely no rationale for this. The previous couple days had been a real drag. Well, every day is a real drag. Hardly a day of school goes by that I don't mope all around Toronto, angsting quietly to myself about how shitty everything is and will always be, and getting worse.

This reached its nadir on Tuesday, a day of 8 hours of consecutive classes. I make it sound worse than it is, mind you, by neglecting to mention that three of those hours is a screening, and that at least in this case, it didn't go the full period.

Still, it is damn hard to get started on Tuesdays. The first three hours are the often-impenetrable American Studies. The last two hours are the pretty weighty Anthropology. It was shitting rain pretty much all day. I realized how badly in need of replacement my backpack is when I had to contend with damp notes for the rest of the day and the next day. I mean shit. I got this backpack when I started at U of T and part of me was very eager that it should be there when I finish. It isn't so bad, so long as it never ever rains.

So to someone as prone to self-immolating internalized drama as I am, Tuesdays are anathema and if I don't find some kind of coping mechanism soon (alcohol, eg. Or skipping,) I might die on a Tuesday.

But Wednesday, ah, oh Wednesday, for whatever reason, I had a good feeling. Maybe because the clouds had dispersed. Maybe because of a good night's sleep. Maybe because of my new friend.

I didn't tell this story, and for that, I apologize. Last Wednesday, during my second Anthropology tutorial, I took a seat innocently in the midst of the third row, second from the back. As the seats all filled up, one of the last spaces was next to me on my left. So on that side, an empty seat, on the other, my backpack, and next to that, a girl. Suddenly, a figure appears on the left and mutters, "Can I sit here bro?" Sure, bro. Whatever.

It wasn't long into the tutorial that I learned that I was sitting next to a Goddamn scientific genius. I call him a scientific genius because even though he's in a second-year Anthropology class, he saw fit to bicker and debate with the TA (whilst calling her "professor" the way a second-grader might refer to "Teacher") over the particularities of the theory of Evolution, specifically that it was "a fact" (bit of a misunderstanding over the meaning of "theory") and that we were genetically wired to believe in God, and Richard Dawkins told him so.

See, this is why I hate people. You can have the right idea but still be an idiot about it. You can get the facts straight and still fuck it all up. You can prepare your arguments but still have no idea what the fuck you are talking about. This young gentleman was belligerently using every fallacy to fight his instructor on points she not only understood better than him, but the broad strokes of which they pretty much agreed. He was just so obnoxious about it that he wasn't going to take "Yes" for an answer. I'm going to have to start recording this shit. The religion discussion in particular deserves mention because of how absurdly far off topic it spiraled. You get the point.

So this whole thing go out of hand, and this guy who is just spouting all this aggravating nonsense to the class is sitting next to me, and I'm a little embarrassed, so I have to turn my head to the girl to my right and wince, and she responds in kind. After class, we introduce ourselves to each other, share a comment or two, and basically decide that we're going to be suffering together for the rest of the year while this guy shoots from the hip, the real deal with evolution.

So yeah, when I meet a girl, I guess the implication is "I met a girl." After all, lord knows I approach many a meeting that way. She came and sat next to me in the lecture this week (actually a video about Darwin.) She worked the phrase "my boyfriend" into the conversation, which was nice of her. The way I see it, the girl has about halfway-through the second meeting to get that tidbit out there, or it's just not fair.

I remember when I met Vasa, for instance, it took a lot of effort to get her to come out with it. I had already added her on Facebook (on the basis that if I hadn't, we probably wouldn't have seen each other ever again, which was not that unlikely) and saw her status. I have what could charitably be described as a mental block against pursuing attached females... which is generally considered a good thing, so I'm gonna keep with it.

I felt refreshed when I woke up Wednesday, the hard part of my week over with. A couple tutorials and a relatively relaxing English lecture (not that it's light material, sure, but it's mostly just sitting there and being talked-at about books, with occasional discussion.) This was borne out through the Anthro tutorial, with predictable results, and I had resolved mainly to sit back and passively enjoy. I then had a three hour break between classes. I was actually contacted by Vasa, with a text letting me know she had seen my doppelganger. This is an inordinately frequent occurrence, not just with Vasa, but other people too. It's a problem for me, not just because it damages my identity, but because I tend to think of anyone who looks like me as a face-stealing asshole.

We ended up hanging out for a good chunk of afternoon, catching up on life in a way we hadn't been able to since she got back from Serbia. Yes, we did hang out at FanExpo, but that was hardly a "So, tell me all about your summer" situation.

She caught me up on some of the utterly fascinating (and I'm not being sarcastic here) sometimes downright shocking and rather lewd details of her life. Not to gossip, it's really none of my business. But that doesn't stop me from being riveted.

I went to visit the Dorval location today. And by "visit," I mean "work an 8 hour shift." It was nice, since Andrea was the other one there, and I haven't worked with her in a while now. It's very quiet there, and not hard to see why that store is closing up. The day mainly consisted of various CDs being played, while the two of us scurried around doing price changes, trading acerbic barbs about the lack of business, and occasionally selling things.

I'll probably be doing that again in the next month, while the store's still open. It'll definitely give me an appreciation for the pace at Oakville Place, where there's always shit going on and no time to get bored. Not that I'm gonna go around bitching about it. Both ways have their advantages and drawbacks. The contrast is just so strong. Seeing Alan arrive at the end of the day, it's clear how much more he enjoys that environment.

I don't know how I'm going to find time for my own shit in the near future. I shouldn't live like I do. This is the main thesis of my self-loathing freakout thoughts that occur from Monday through Tuesday. The rest of the time I think I'll be okay.

I think. Well, we'll see. It was good to do a post that was about something other than me freaking out about life. Good change of pace. There's hope where you least expect it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

R: Mass migration of elephants

2010-09-27T01:11:00.003-04:00

I don't think I have seasonal affected disorder; if it's a real thing then the people who experience it probably suffer much more drastic moodswings than I do. There's a certain charm to fall, to the breeze winds and falling leaves, but I always get real sentimental.

Something about this weather keeps dragging me back to the falls of my past, most notably fall 2004, the one where I started this blog, and probably the last fall that didn't rush past in a blur.

As I'm getting older and thinking harder and harder about what I'm supposed to do with myself once I stop being a student (and coming to no valid conclusion) that life gets farther away from me, but it still feels current in the air. The past will never be again. I'll never drive out to Stratford for Earnest costumes, never be harangued into joining improv or do Maim in Vain. Conversely, I'll never be as melodramatic a person as I was then, constantly analyzing every little interaction I had with anyone, because goddamn were they hard to come by.

I do live in isolation and it does suck. I had a family gathering earlier today and some of my aunts noticed I seemed different. My go-to answer was that I wasn't sleeping, which isn't untrue exactly. And it's probably part of it. I went to bed at about 3 the night before, woke up at 10 and by the time I was showered and ready to go for my morning coffee (which is, many days, my afternoon coffee) we were a half hour from going to the gathering. Since my "coffee" trips tend to take 45 minutes to a half-hour, during which I listen to music, overthink shit and drink coffee, I had no time for this vital part of my routine. The lack of it, I was feeling by the time we hit the road.

I got there and asked Aunt Karen if she had any, like a junkie looking for a fix. Apparently she doesn't keep any at the ready (fair enough, neither do I) but she was glad to fix a cup with a French Press, which I'd never had before. It was pretty awesome.

It was the usual family gather. wrestling with Cameron and generally being made to do whatever he wanted. It was different in that it was a lunchtime thing rather than a dinner, since the kids had plans to go to the finale of the Next Big Star on YTV. I remained low-key, as I often do, when I wasn't brawling with Cameron. I also managed to unload some of the books I had bought long ago from the book store's "burning our inventory" secret sale.

Earlier in the week, I went to Cary's place for drinks. We talked the usual -- people we know, people Cary knows, people I know... stuff I'm writing, Half-Past. The future. It was reaffirming in some sense because the way Cary and I relate keeps me grounded and puts my shit in perspective. At the same time, I retold some of my freak-out stories from the week before. I also ran into Justine from Sheridan earlier in the night, getting out of class (different classes, mind.) She seems to have mellowed some, although that's just one meeting. We all have.

Still trying to find my solid ground. Earlier this week, I was struck by a recurrence of an idea from long ago that refuses to leave my mind. It's an idea for a TV show, and technically I have no idea how I would go about pursuing it, but I feel I must work towards getting this on TV as a major goal in my life.

So that's something to work toward. I guess what I want least is to wake up in 7 years, be 30, and think to myself, "I haven't even budged."

So keep on rockin'
-Scotto

S: World of Dogs

2010-09-17T16:10:00.004-04:00

I'm more than a little disengaged today. When I wrote more - both fiction and in here - I had more of a framework in which to build my life, but as SWP and other things have fallen by the wayside, my mind has gotten disorganized.

With the end of summer, particularly with Eric leaving and also me going back to school, my mind is aggressively getting back to writing mode, which of course means I feel a bit more open to rambling on and on about myself even when I have nothing to say. Last night, I had a dream about Cait. The night before I found out she died, I had a dream about someone that could've been partly her. People enter our subconscious in the weirdest ways.

Part of me wants to get on with my life (after all, as close as we were when we worked together, we had drifted far, far apart) and part of me wants to hold onto this melancholy, borderline obsessive feeling about it, since it's the realest thing that's happened to me in as long as I can remember.

I once heard that when we dream about a dead person, that person is trying to contact us. Although that's probably not the case for the recently-deceased, since they tend to linger on that level of your mind where dreams are made. By the same note, I've been having a lot of weird dreams about work in general, often weirdly distressing.

They're the kinds of dreams that feel extremely real when you're in them (don't they all?) but seem absolutely absurd when you wake up.

I could stand to deal with shit better.

I got to work this morning and, as she always does, Karen asked me "How are you this morning?" What a question! Hey, no offense, but even if I could conceive of an answer (beyond "I got up and walked here") would you really care? "I didn't sleep well because my dog was barking and I was having dreams about our dead ex-coworker." Shit.

So I just shrug and smile "same old."

Something's got to keep me grounded, though. That's probably where my very serious-seeming school timetable comes in. Well that's the upside of it, I guess.

After work today I went over to fix my Grandma's TV. All she had done was turn off the cable box, but I couldn't diagnose this over the phone. Apparently she had been without TV all week, with mom neglecting to mention to me I was needed until midday Friday.

I used to go over there all the time, throughout high school, when I was walking Xena. I stopped doing that years ago. It was clear to me, when I was doing it, that Grandma liked keeping me as company, and I often enjoyed sitting with her and talking, despite my general dislike of small talk. I always gathered she appreciated it, and I liked that. But when I had to move on, I moved on.

So on an occasion like this, where I'm called down to Grandma's for a simple thing, I probably ought to have stayed longer than I did. That's not to say I showed up, turned her cable box back on, and ran out. I did catch her up on what was new with me (very little) talk a bit about work and school, ask about her dogs. That kind of thing. I even took my shoes off. But I didn't stick around for a little can of 7up, although in hindsight, I would've like to.

Dogs. Everyone seems to be having dog problems. We with our little barking one. Grandma with her nibbling Yorkie, Manda with her pup. Every one of us is living in a world of dogs, it seems.

I'll be working on figuring out how to get my shit together this week. Stay tuned!

And keep on rockin'
-Scotto

T: I'll be here a while

2010-09-15T23:08:00.001-04:00

Nothing makes me want to reach for the comfort of the bottle like a new school year.

I was not excited about my schedule for this year before the week started. I'm still not.

Due largely to my own flawed decision-making, and bad planning, coupled with the school's general propensity for boning, I've got four classes I pretty much have to take but don't really want to. I haven't got anything I can really sink my teeth into. I had too much fun last year and got spoiled. Now what's left is shit. If I'd known I had signed up for a Film Theory Course, I'd have gone and done Documentary instead. The reason I didn't was I thought it would be too specific. Fack.

Regrets. I have more than a few over the way my scheduling has shaken out. The necessity of each class I can deal with, but taken together, it's bleak. I guess I've just gotten used to University as a luxury... something I was choosing to do and doing my best to have fun with. All the bottom-line requirement stuff has come later. Later being now. The horrible, horrible now.

It'll be okay. Time passes. Shit works itself out. If I do badly, I do badly. If I end up skipping a bunch, it happens. I have to try not to stress over it. It seems weird to submit to my slacker instincts, but that's what happens when I end up taking classes I'm not thrilled about. There is not a single goddamn class this semester I would've chosen for myself. If I get interested, I'll act it. But now I just feel like it's beyond me.

Besides, I never do well in the first semester.

So there's the issue of not caring, the issue of being burdened with all the readings I don't care about, and the issue of spending long, ungodly hours at school for classes I don't care about (why am I doing this again?) I have a feeling my attendance is going to suffer. to wit: I have eight consecutive hours of class on Tuesdays (three of which are for a screening, but still.)

I had a tutorial for Anthropology today. I was by far the least scientific person in there. I'm going to try not to be an asshole about it. The weird thing is, I don't even hate the idea of being in that class, I just feel intimidated. But sometimes I think, y'know, I don't give myself enough credit: my mind's a bit more scientific than I used to think. If I had really thought about it, I might've gone into the sciences out of high school and kept the writing thing as a hobby. Way more practical this way.

Then again, it's hard to argue with the route my Journalism/English life has taken me so far. And I'm not nearly as scientific as I just said I realized I might be.

I just need to not suck this year. Somehow. I'll find time. Even when there isn't any time.

I rant formlessly and without any connecting thoughts.

More of this, later, forever, all year.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

U: Life During Wartime

2010-09-11T23:02:00.003-04:00

since I do so few posts in a month, I'm going around my usual convention of "New Naming Convention every month," which has been the case more or less since the inception of this blog.

Last weekend brought with it a Septembery chill that reminds one that we're coming to a place in the Earth's revolution around the sun that tilts our hemisphere away. It's getting chilly.

This is, if all goes according to plan, the last time I'll ever associate the chilliness of late summer/early fall with the return to school. This time next year I'll be finding my way in the world without the caveat of studenthood. The excuse. It's freaky. I don't want to think about it. Don't make it.

Unfortunately, this time of year has a habit of provoking thoughts I'd rather ignore. Aside from thinking about the far-flung future of 2011, there's the very near future of two days from now. I find myself constantly bemoaning the debacle into which I'm getting myself, working and going to school and having crazy-ass hours. Part of me believes this is all the work of a self-destructive mind. WTF am I doing. What the fuck.

But all that takes a backseat now. Nothing can really be done. Things are the way they are, all I can do is weather the storm. I've been working all week. I've got my head down, where it'll be for the next semester. Whatever happens will happen. Whatever angst is strangling me is slightly secondary to this:

Yesterday at work, I learned that a girl I worked with died. Cait, a girl who had made such an impact on me in a short time that I related the story of meeting her just a few weeks ago to talk about change in my life. She was such a force during the brief time that I knew her that I thought of her often and wished I could have seen more of her after we stopped working together.

Here was a girl I liked instantly, whose energy was pretty easy to catch for yourself. She made some of the dreary days of last year's holiday season a lot more interesting, and I looked forward to days I worked with her. I was actively bitter for weeks after she was not hired, even though she constantly assured me she was better off, not suited to the corporate store environment. still, she laughed at just about everything I said, and I wasn't afraid to say anything around her.

Shortly before Christmas, she got a black eye from falling off a barstool. It was pretty absurd to keep going about her business after that, but she did. On New Year's, a friend of hers committed suicide. I had made her a mix CD and was suddenly self-conscious about the fact that one of the songs on the mix (Bill McCai by the Coral) was a lighthearted ditty about suicide. She jovially told me to never mind, she was used to it (as she'd lost so many of her acquaintances) and was not overly sensitive. A long time later when she finally listened to it, she told me she liked the CD, although she never got around to making me mine.

One of the couple times we went to the bar after work, she lost her work shirt and I lent her my old one from 2006. For am long time afterward, it smelled like her, but since it's been 9 months, it doesn't anymore.

The last time I saw her, I had tracked her to the Booster Juice where she was working, just for the sake of seeing her. That was early in this summer. I was hoping to arrange a meet-up for drinks, but she got busy with her other job, tattooing and I figured there'd be more time.

When Gus had said he'd heard from Taylor that she was dead, Karen, Chantelle and I were all within earshot. After confirming this by calling Dorval, Karen and Chantelle went to the back to have a cry. I just stood there, contemplating it. I was sad, shocked, and all those other expected things. But it hadn't seemed impossible. Not that I'd thought about it beforehand "Yeah, she'll probably die young," that'd be insanely callous. But the way darkness seemed to cling to her, even despite her lightness. Sad, but somehow when I heard it, it didn't disbelieve.

Anyway, it's... it's very sad. Understandably, it's got me in a bit of a funk this weekend. It's heavy.

But do what you can to keep on rockin'
-Scott

V: Postcards from nowhere in particular

2010-08-31T00:50:00.002-04:00

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

2010-08-28T21:19:00.004-04:00

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

2010-08-28T20:15:00.004-04:00

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

2010-08-07T23:46:00.002-04:00

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.

2010-08-02T01:04:00.002-04:00

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

0404: What absorbs me

2010-07-21T00:42:00.001-04:00

So let me tell you about this.

This past weekend was a weird one for me. It's typical of my current inconsistency that I'm just now getting around to writing about it. Strange how not a post goes by that I don't remark on my own lack of posting. I've turned into a damn broken record. Man, there's gotta be a more 21st century equivalent to that saying, and yet "Broken MP3" doesn't make any damn sense. Things don't repeat the way they used to. Anyway, maybe I'm just too easily distracted.

Once a summer since I started at U of T, I get invited to a party where I only know the person throwing it. In 2008, I trekked out to the Beaches to see my friend Jasmin and eat sushi. In 2009, it was a much closer event, Alyssa's birthday. This year it was Christmas in July with Neabel.

It's weird, how I know Neabel. It's a complicated story that doesn't really make sense. I met her through mutual friends when I was casting the video for Half-Past Eight PM. Somehow years later, when I got no Twitter, I decided to add her on there, and occasionally we share jokes, mainly quotes from the Office. When she came to see the new and improved stage version of Half-Past, we all went out for drinks afterward and I mainly entertained her.

So I wound up with this invitation to her Christmas in July party. And for weeks I was on the fence about going, until the week of I decided that there was not much of a reason not to. Life is boring, I should get out more.

A little before the day of the party, a notice went out that presents were a nice idea, but only things that were made by hand would be accepted. Neabs had noted that she had gone to great lengths to decorate her place. I responded by saying I'd work up some kind of Christmas Poem for her.

Days went by and I didn't have anything. As of that afternoon I was still trying to figure out the cleverest way to twist "The Night Before Christmas" into a summery parody thing. After a few dead ends I decided I was through with that notion, that it was going to be obvious and not that rewarding for me. So I went in another direction and worked up a "Grade 4 Writing Project" story (my new favourite writing style) called "The First Christmas In July," which contains a lot of the humour I might've been able to muster up when I was 10 years old. I liked it, and decided to write more like that from now on.

So while I had the idea in place, I got on a train and wrote in in a notebook on my way over. I finished the last illustration (bad stick figures ahoy!) as the train pulled into Union. I stopped off to pick up alcoholic beverages from the oh-so-convenient LCBO in Union before taking the Subway to Dufferin, the train to Neabel's, and wandering into the place looking dazed. Woo.

I had not yet decided what path the night would take. One of two possibilities. I could stay, sleep on the floor, party all night with these temporary strangers, or leave early, take the last train home, and go back to where it's safe and warm.

As more and more people arrived, I warmed up to the group. I talked with some of Neabs' co-workers, feeling a bit exposed by my less-than-advanced place in life. I read my story, which got an enthusiastic response. I met Neabs' (former?) roommate, whom she'd advised to follow me on twitter, for whatever reason. I was chatted up by one girl, Kristen, on the subject of names, when she managed to recall my full name. I was feeling good. Then I made one wrong turn and the night went to crap.

I wandered into a hallway where some people were discussing the cinnamon challenge. If you've never heard of this activity, feel free to YouTube it. I'll wait.

Anyway, what happened was they were talking about it, and somehow, in my drunken bravado, I accepted an invitation to try. Not for nothing, mind you. There was a money-figure attached. I figured failure was the most likely outcome, but for a shot at forty bucks, I'm willing to put my physical well-being on the line for a possible cash reward. If nothing else, it'd make for an experience I would never have any excuse to repeat.

So, in case you're considering whether to try it for yourself, I advise against it. What ended up happening was the lot of us went out front with a spoonful of cinnamon (and sadly, no water for my benefit) and a camera. So, with a cheers, I popped the spoon in my mouth, and...

Glue. It was at that exact moment I realized exactly what I had gotten myself into. My mouth was stuck. Nothing would go down, nothing wanted to budge. I coughed a little excess powder onto Neabs' sister, and finally ejected the rest onto the grass below. I spent a lot of the rest of the night coughing and expelling fluids over the back balcony, possibly onto vehicles below. Kristen returned to discuss her plans for the night, to stay, but the only thing that was on my mind was getting to safety. I was done. Sad story.

I said my goodbyes (a brief round though they were) and headed out to the bus, which got me to the subway, which got me to the GO station with plenty of time. I got out of the subway station and, throat raw, heard a saxophone player. I chucked a small amount of change in her case and stuck around to hear her play. She thanked me and asked whether I had any requests. I said I wasn't sure what she could play, and she just asked what I liked, so I went simple and said I was a big Beatles fan. So she played a sweet little version of It's Only Love, which is a comparatively minor John composition from Help!, which I think has a nice tune, and though the lyrics are generally unsophisticated, the chorus has a half-decent sentiment, "It's only love, and that is all, but it's so hard loving you." By no means the greatest song ever written, but it has a subtle undercurrent of self-doubt and self-consciousness that was gradually emerging at this point (Help.)

On the way home, I read a comic I'd thoughtfully brought along for the ride. After I got home, my voice was like an octave deeper into the next afternoon.

It's been a busy few days. After work Monday, Eric and I went to see Inception (great) and then Tuesday was the release of Scott Pilgrim volume 6.

I need to write. I have a lot of work to do. It's a wreck in here.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

0303: I was really always this

2010-07-15T01:20:00.003-04:00

Feels like ages since I blogged so regularly that I didn't feel the need to comment on the span of time between entries, but here we are.

It's been a very busy week. I slept in through my alarm Friday morning and got to work a half hour late. I was on track to have a pretty frustrating day when at about noon the ceiling started to drip, and the store ended up flooding.

During some maintenance to the upstairs store, someone had busted the sprinkler pipe. The store was closed for the rest of the day. Until the ceiling tiles started coming down, Jeff the receiver guy and I tried frantically to move product out from the path of the water, before figuring "fuck it." (Most of what we moved ended up in good shape.)

It's one of those things you've just gotta laugh at, by that point. I usually take minor inconveniences badly, but such absurdly big big ones just amuse the piss out of me, because what else are you gonna do? After the cleanup crew showed up and cleared the largest pools, we spent the rest of the afternoon drying up product. I had to go in at 7 AM to get things set up to open on time that day, with Andrea and Karen. It went pretty well. The kicker was all that alphabetization we ha just done a few days earlier. Sigh.

Beyond that, the weekend was uneventful. Eric ended up going to see friends and I had a night to myself for the first time in months. The sickening thing is how lonely and bored I got. I didn't know what to do with myself, since by now I've forgotten what having all that freedom meant.

I was supposed to see Chantelle's band play Sunday night, but my ride (Andrea) fell through, which is a shame, but what are ya gonna do. I've also been trying to wrangle Cait and manage to get out to Toronto Friday night for Christmas in July at Neabel's. Suddenly I'm all social.

And that about sums it up. I could go on, I could've unpacked all those stories, but I'm tired and just wanted to get it all out there. I should write more. Not SWP, per se, but get back to my projects at least.

The other thing is, I mostly got my course schedule anxiety worked out, and have a load I can pretty much handle/tolerate/will allow me to graduate. Things could be better, but it's all worked out about as well as could be expected, considering the rocky, frustrating start I had.

I've got other stuff to work on. It's a decent problem to have, to want to be wherever you're wanted.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

0202: Clear-eyed and able

2010-07-07T22:20:00.004-04:00

The prophetic words of Jack Kerouac linger in my ears, 5 years later: "If I do nothing/ nothing does."

Those lines are the closing words of "Mexican Loneliness," which is the first poem that really convinced me poetry could be cool. As much as you would expect me to excel in Writer's Craft, I always did languish. At the time I just didn't have it in me to expose my inner-writer to the world. I was writing shitty poetry and crappy, insignificant stories.

Growth is important. That was the first of many growing moments for me as a writer/person. Definitely not the last. There was an initial burst of creativity after reading that piece, and then I spent about 2 and a half years growing into it before finally writing my first poem that I'd say was good, in 2007. The Kerouac poem also loomed large over my short stories, which have followed their own growth cycle. I've been working on these stories since 2005, and I'm still not sure whether I've written any really good ones, although they keep getting better.

I've been tinkering since 2005, yes, although any work I did before 2009 could be considered irrelevant in the light of another revelatory moment in Kuhn's short story class last summer. It wasn't the first time I'd read Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," but it was the most impactful. Perhaps "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" was a bigger influence. Shut just started getting clearer for me, and I've been tweaking and refining ever since. I have two surviving drafts from before then that I intend to revive wholesale, and a bunch of others I totally ditched.

I tend to work on them in isolation. I do my best to let them create a context for themselves, but I am wary of over-repeated and over-explaining elements that are dealt with elsewhere. Whether it'll all make sense when put together, I have yet to be certain. This isn't even about them.

No, as I've been building up my cache of stories (ones few people will likely read) I've been neglecting my slightly more pressing concern: the stage.

It was just a little over a year ago now that I was coming down off the incomparable high of my first true stage production and preparing for its follow-up. The first play I churned out didn't work the way I'd hoped (not that I've scrapped the idea, I'm keeping it up my sleeve.) It was a few months before I really came up with a good alternative, and even that, again, had a shitty start. The difference was, I was more capable of seeing how to fix the problems with that one, rolled up my sleeves and got to it. As of December, I had a pretty decent working draft.

Time goes by, and you begin to second-guess yourself (this, incidentally, applies to everything about my life far beyond writing.) I was in fact working on a major revision of the play when Cary revealed we wouldn't be doing EAS this year. This kinda hurt my motivation and I just dropped it in favour of those stories I'd been putting off even longer, now that I had creative energy and focus to spare. It generally worked out and for the last 5 months, I've been fairly pleased with my output. But.

With everything going on in my life, everything's sort of gone on on hold. And I say "everything going on" and it implies I've a busy, exciting guy, when the truth is just that I have a garden of distractions and irritations to contend with. This week I've been working extra hours because we decided to rearrange the store, so I got to do some wonderfully repetitive tasking while sales probably plummeted. It was actually kinda fun. But anyway.

Tonight I was doing my usual "sitting at the computer doing absolutely nothing" shtick when, as it occasionally does, it occurred to me that I could be writing? But what? But WHAT? If you've been reading this entry, you should be able to guess, because even if I was a shitty writer (and I don't believe I am) I'm at least capable of building to a proper conclusion.

So I did what I've been intending to do but putting off for months -- fucking scrapped the earlier draft. That's not true, it still exists and will largely be incorporated into the new draft. But whereas previous drafts were written by grafting new dialogue into the established framework, I started a new document and will be wiring it together without as much allegiance to those old lines, so as to encourage myself to do better. So far it's worked. I've got a couple of newly-written pages that cuts down on a fairly lengthy opening scene that probably wouldn't garner as many laughs as I'd hoped. I only got about 4 pages in before losing steam, but it's important to dip one's toes in. I intend to keep going back, rather than return to procrastination, and eventually rebuild this play. Many of the jokes are strong, and most of the characters have gotten quite sharp. But hey, it took 6 years for Half-Past to get to its ultimate form, so getting this one into shape in just a year would be a good feat.

Anyway, it was good to do this, since issues pertaining to my course selection for next year have gotten me a bit wound up. I need to straighten this shit out. After all, if I do nothing, nothing does.

See what I did there?

I'm a writer, sometimes.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

0101: Every little piece of it

2010-07-02T23:52:00.003-04:00

Hard to believe, but there was once a time when there was so little lag between entries that merely describing the events of my day sufficed. I've often reminisced about those days of White Oaks and Sheridan when it was as simple as coming home after a long day of school and venting whatever shit had managed to accumulate in the previous 24-48 hours. I thought my posting rate would never slow down, but now I must accept that it inevitably has.

As usual, I blame Twitter. And while my life is as uninteresting as ever, I'm less and less inclined to go on at length about it. Of course, if you think this means I'm calling it off and ending this (rather juvenile) practice, well, you don't know me. Baby I can bullshit on the Internet all decade if need be.

I'm not as wound up as I was last week about Eric, and about life in general, although that doesn't mean I won't be again. These things tend to come and go in waves. I'm finding my balance. A friend of mine -- whom I know only through the internet -- suggested I should get out more, because I guess she's under the assumption that whenever I'm not at work I'm on the computer.

There's some truth to this. Not entirely, but it's hard to deny I've embraced shut-in-ism, and have therefore been the source of my own angst for a lot of this summer. It certainly wasn't, going to be as epic as last year. With friends as far as Toronto and Guelph and France and Hong Kong, work tying me to certain duties of time and space, I'm not getting out as much as I probably could. I could be doing it better.

But it's not like I'm trapped. I very seriously considered going to Guelph to see Robyn this week. I hung out with Vasa this past Wednesday -- she's going to Serbia for a dig (so that's another friend going out of bounds this summer, not to mention another friend whose life is indescribably more interesting than mine.) Marti and I have been grappling with the specifics of a hangout for weeks. I have my annual obligatory "Party where I don't know anybody" coming up. I don't know how I manage to get myself into these situations, but they tend to be awesome.

A few years ago, for instance, I was at Jazmin's, and she knows a lot of really eclectic people. I remember getting a lift back to Union station with a dude and a random Afro-British lady, who joined me in debating the virtues of the Ang Lee Hulk movie, among other superhero films. If I hadn't been so exhausted, I might've pursued. Ah, life! You never know who you're going to meet.

My point is, there's a balance, and I'm reaching it. It's only a matter of time before I have to go back to the old routine - or some variation thereof anyhow.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 7: Left intentionally blank

2010-06-25T22:43:00.003-04:00

Got a couple of couches, sleep on the loveseat.

Let me tell you what it's like.

I read an article recently pointing out that excessive white noise is bad for you. Apparently it stimulates a bad part of your brain, affects neurochemical flow, or some other scientific mumbo-jumbo (except, y'know, for real.) Your brain doesn't get accustomed to it, either, so the disruption is ongoing. And in your everyday life this shouldn't be a problem, but the way things are for me lately, it feels like I'm getting near critical mass.

I used to be able to sleep. I had it all. The house was a nice place to live. A nice place to be. It all worked. The system has broken and things will now never be how they used to.

This is the problem with dog ownership. now by and large, I like the new dog. She's a bit overzealous, she's a bit needy for attention, but it's fine. She's in a new place, she needs comfort and reassurance. Probably, I guess. But that doesn't help me when I've gone to bed at 2 AM and she's causing a calamity for mom to deal with every morning. "Durr, don't go to bed at 2 AM then" shut the fuck up.

Then there's work, which is all background noise, all the radio and the customers and the cash registers. And this is generally acceptable, because shit, I'm being paid, I know what I'm getting into.

Lastly, there's Eric, and the personal space issues inherent when someone is sleeping on your couch and scarcely has any reason to get away from it. Maybe this wasn't going to be the greatest summer ever, but it wasn't supposed to be so fucking miserable. I'm trapped in an extremely mundane nightmare that, rather than being outright tragic, is slowly wearing down my tolerance for the everyday... which let's face it, wasn't so strong to begin with.

If I'd known it'd be this way... that Eric was coming back, specifically, maybe I'd have taken a summer course. I know I work plenty to get out of the house, but facing facts, I need as many reasons to be out of this house as I can take. I show up to work in the morning -- because jolly good on top of everything else I'm opening regularly now -- happy, because I've just experienced a rare 20 minutes of freedom between leaving the house for the morning and signing in to the store.

But it's not so bad, it's just that there's nothing for myself. And worse, despite no meditative alone time, I still get absorbed into myself because I'm trying to retreat any way I can. That's a bad habit.

The last week's been a blur. We made flank steak for dad for father's day, there wasn't a lot of it to go around. I worked. Went out for drinks with CB on Wednesday night, talked Lost and the usual good times; drank too much (arguably my plan from the start.) Felt gross the next day, but triumphantly.

And now what.

Now summer starts its slow sink. It's just... this.

And yeah. I'm kind of upset about it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

pg 6: Never been nothing

2010-06-19T23:42:00.003-04:00

I guess there are two diametrically-opposed types of nights as far as soundtracks go. A lot of music is good "any time," but tonight's the kind of night where I had to stop listening to Broken Social Scene's Forgiveness Rock Record and put on Nirvana Live at Reading.

Been a little down lately. Whether this has anything to do with Eric or work or anything else, I can't say. I'm just detached, like the whole of reality is at arm's length and I can't connect. I'm no tragedy, I'm just bored and lonely.

The other day, I thumbed through a book of Leonard Cohen's poetry in Cole's. I looked at the poetry -- didn't really read it, as I had little time -- and was taken back to the earliest times I can remember feeling a fresh, new relationship with poetry, back in Grade 12. Since then it's been a few notable encounters, and as much as I appreciated Reibetanz's class back in first year there's no going back to those days of Guthrie.

I wrote something last night. I had a story that was 650 words, a nice but brief sketch, and I doubled its length to flesh it out and change the tone of the ending. I was rather pleased with the whole effect. It'd been a while since I had done even that much, so I'm going to try to reclaim my little streak from earlier this summer. I'm wearing my Grandad's old hat, which I think will become my writing hat, my reminder that as long as I'm wearing this hat, I should be writing something and not just idly browsing. I know what I need to do, but I've got a bit of a ways to go.

Well, keep at it, kid. And get back to the world, they might be missing you.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 5: I don't remember you

2010-06-19T00:58:00.002-04:00

It's been a busy couple of days over here. Eric's still here, I'm getting over whatever anxiety I usually have and just living with it. Sure, I still sigh with resignation when I get downstairs in the morning to find the TV still on, but I get over it, get on with my life.

We cleaned up yesterday. One of the big projects mom wanted Eric to tackle was to re-paint a portion of the basement wall, behind the couch. See, 6 years ago, when we first moved in here (cripes, it's been that long -- and I had just started SWP then) Frank was living with us, and he was supposed to paint the basement all white. It was primed -- as some will know, primer is white -- by Eric, and then for whatever reason Frank decided "good enough" and didn't bother, despite the obvious patchiness on certain parts of the wall. Um yeah. Wonder why that guy's relationships never work out.

Anyway, it didn't really matter -- mostly it was behind the couch, where it was mostly unseen. But I think mom, knowing it was there, never really got it off her mind and finally got the wherewithal to get on with it. We we took on a pretty massive multi-phase project yesterday, first cleaning up the surrounding area, clearing away garbage and dust. Six years' accumulation of crap can be quite significant. This was followed by the physical moving of furniture and the painting itself. Then Eric called the paint prematurely dry after the first coat and put the couch back, getting paint on the back of the couch. Luckily it was latex, easy enough to wipe off the leather couch, especially before drying.

When I summarize it, it doesn't sound like a big deal, but trust me when I say this was a considerable undertaking. Six years with the attitude of "it's our place and we leave whatever we want wherever we leave it" leaves a lot of random crap -- papers, wrappers, small items -- in random places, even with Eric not living here for the last two of those.

Come to think of it, I've gotten so acclimated to him that I'll actually miss him when he's gone. Don't fuckin' tell him that, though.

Another task was to take an old washer-dryer set to the curb, which was not hard -- they were a small set -- but we noticed a raccoon nesting in our front yard tree, which freaked us out. Also, we were distracted by our creepy Eastern European neighbour insistently drawing our attention to it and offering us his broom to, uh, jab at it with. Um yeah.

Live and let live, man.

Beyond that, life is fine. Getting more ideas, and it won't be long before they bust through my self-denial of writing. I often feel self-conscious about writing when Eric's around, possibly because he's just over my shoulder, possibly because I'm distracted by the TV. I don't get a lot of peace and quiet in my life, except sometimes when I go on walks and decide not to listen to my iPod, and then I often end up muttering quietly to myself just so I can get whatever thoughts I'm having out into the air. I need syntax.

But yeah. Things are going okay. My work schedule is relaxed, and if it weren't for my occasional edginess at the company around the house, I'd probably feel bored more than anything. As it is, it's enough fun suppressing unwarranted aggravation. (That is to say I really shouldn't feel aggravated. But such is life.)

I think I'll tinker with a story before bed.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 4: Shades of orange

2010-06-16T00:32:00.002-04:00

Selfish as it is, it's hard for me to engage with life when my brother's around. It's stupid, and I should just be able to co-exist or work around, but I find myself just blanking and detaching myself in an effort to cope. I've grown so accustomed to his absence that I simply do not know what to do. It has nothing to do with him as a person, it has to do with me as somebody who craves solitude.

Which is weird, since usually I'm angsting about simply having too much solitude. Well, there's no winning with me. My point is, I can't focus, I'm feeling lame. To cope, we're watching the 90's X-Men cartoon, which I've been buying volume by volume.

I'm not saying I was ever perfect, that I was all that productive before he arrived. I had one good spurt and it was over well before he did. Could be I'm just projecting pre-existing angst onto him. I don't blame him for anything, he is not antagonizing me, I'm just a lamer who has no stability nor consistency in his life. It's my problem, I'm my own problem, shit like this I've said a dozen hundred times.

Nothing happens and I live like a nobody. I work once every few days. No balance -- too much free time I get restless. Too little I get resentful, taking it out on others, most obviously Eric.

I used to write poetry. I used to be able to put things in order with words, make sense out of things with syntax. Not so much lately. The poems gave way to story gave way to nothing. Now I'm back to the old habit of thinking about things I ought to be writing or would like to write someday, although to my credit the last couple days have both seen me cross some longstanding projects off my list.

Complain, complain, complain.

Eric was nearly scammed recently, part of his job search. Not an overly interesting story, but if I'm ever looking back wondering when that happened, here it is. I was actually disappointed when we found out it was a scam, since it seemed like such a convenient real-life deus ex machina.

Mom's getting a new dog. I was pretty against this after Max died. Not so much out of fear of dishonoring Max, but out of practicality. I didn't want to have to teach a new puppy how to poop outside, etc. When mom said she was considering getting a Yorkshire puppy from our cousin (who breeds them) I was very troubled. Then when I found out Grandma had said either mom was going to take the dog, or she was, I was even moreso (who knew my grandma was into coercion?) And then I started to warm up to the idea, just as long as Mom was aware I was not interested in being the dog's caretaker and trainer. And then the way things shook out...

Grandma's getting the dog, the Yorkie. Mom got a different opportunity. A co-worker is moving, or knows someone who's moving, and they can't take their 6-year-old Cockerspaniel-Poodle with them, so we're taking her. Yep, we get the honor of owning our very-own ridiculously-named dog breed: A cock-a-poo. You can't tell me the people naming these things aren't aware of the joke.

Anyway. The dog's all trained and everything, so good. The main problem is her name. We didn't get to name Max either, although it was a fairly acceptable name. We ended up baby-talking the name into the gibberish-sounding nickname "L'ead" (pronounced "Lay-ed," not quite "Lad" but definitely not "led.") Anyway, the new dog is named "Bella," which is irksome because it's either a Twilight reference or an annoying coincidence. Since it already has its name ingrained, however, we'll probably just end up calling it by some meaningless similar-sounding variant like "Belly" or "Bells" or "Bellsy," then "Bell's Palsy" and eventually "Ballsy." That's how these things work, but you can't force them. B. suggested "Hell's Bells" but I told him that's not how it works.

And that's pretty much all the interesting stuff that's been going on with me lately. And how amazing that it's not interesting at all. I'm losing it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 3: wtf are you

2010-06-11T23:22:00.002-04:00

Work, music, a few DVDs, a weekly meet up with Amanda, grocery shopping, coffee every morning. Continuity. Stability. I'm losing my mind for it.

I'm not at the end of my rope, I'm hanging comfortably from it. I try to take the time to take in the world around me but I don't spend a lot of time getting down to business. A solid week of work exhausted me and got me out of my productivity zone and now I'm getting really vivid nonsensical dreams that are the middles of very confusing stories.

I don't like having to open, as I did today, and despite what I sometimes think, it's not really about who I'm working with, it's abut time. I don't like having to go to bed/wake up early for a shift. I don't like getting off at 2 and feeling like the day is pretty much gone. I like having a day -- as much of one as I can -- and then going to work, and coming home at 9:30 to realize there's still time to write, or do other things. Productivity has slackened.

I had a phase of writing stories last month. I was quite pleased with the work I did on them, and remain satisfied, although it's an ongoing process. I sent a large cache of them to Amanda to get her best go at a straightforward opinion. She generally liked them, with her main piece of criticism being the fact that many of them felt unfinished and therefore should be lengthened. Not hard to agree, as some are under 1000 words, although in some cases that's a stylistic choice I'm hesitant to deviate from. Anyway, it gave me some reassurance, since I consistently requested she be honest so long as it was constructive.

Been thinking about a number of different things lately. Top priority is no longer the stories, they'll have to wait. I need to get back to playwrighting, since we're going to be attempting to get the new play going again this fall, for summer 2011. I had a draft I was happy with, but that I knew could be better. Structure things, character dynamics, jokes. Writing is hard.

Anyway.

Been thinking about a few other projects lately. Big webcomic thing that beckons my attention, particularly as it involves the work of another person. I was also thinking of my old movie script, Summer at Sixteen. Not necessarily about re-doing it, just as idle thoughts on how I wrote it, why I wrote it like I did, and why it does or doesn't work. Structurally it's rather mature/challenging for something a 17-year-old wrote, although it's still clumsy in many ways. Could be more interesting, funnier, more dramatic. Could've been more everything without actually adding more content. But the fact that I did it at all, and it was what it was, is something I'm still pretty proud of.

Anyway. This is all by way of attempting to get it together. I've got promises to break, and miles to go before I... well, that was a half-assed parody.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 2: All your friends are not like you

2010-06-07T00:11:00.003-04:00

For my part, I value my free time to work 6 days in a row.

Intellectually, I know more work is a good thing. More money. Something to do. Yada yada. But I get exhausted and cranky like a child, if forced to spend too much time in the work environment. I had this bizarre dream last night about it. A stress-panic dream about work.

Today ended a 6-day streak of shifts, settling me back into my 15 hour a week void. I don't mind it. I made some money, I'll make more money, time is valuable. Life goes on. It sure beats not working at all.

Then again, since I'm not under the same financial constraints as soon (many) people I know, I guess I have a skewed view.

The other morning, this kid came in, wanting nothing more than to tell me his story, how he sings Ricky Martin covers and finds it hard to keep friends, how he insists on respectfully referring to people as "sir" (even when they tease him by calling him "gaylord.") I don't know what this kid had; whichever neurological condition prevents you from understanding not everyone wants to talk to you, but it was clear he was having a hard time. A real nice, earnest kid. It's a bit hard for me to feel bad about myself when I meet a dude like that, just kinda rolling on with his life despite clearly being disappointed with it, and yet unable to rein himself in, and unable to let any of it stop him.

In any case, today was a pretty nice day at work, one lady's passive aggressive trolling about our prices aside (it happens man, I work at HMV.) I was in good spirits, the new girl is learning things at a rate generally considered proper. She's still a bit quiet, but she's getting more talkative than some previous co-workers I've had. Plus she digs Flight of the Conchords, which gives her a notch in my good books.

Sometimes I feel like I'm a dick to certain customers. I don't try to be, I just get exhausted with certain types of people. Fact is, I may sympathize with the individual customers too much for my status as an operative of a massive corporation. I'm not an important part of it, just a minor expendable appendage, like a baby toe or a uvula. Do you need your uvula? Well, I guess I don't feel like a uvula anyway.

Well anyway. I'll be fine. Just do it better. Be more good at it. Whatever it is.

I have stories to polish. I'll have time in the near future. I just need to get unwound. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

pg 1: I know you're in there

2010-06-02T23:55:00.003-04:00

6 years ago I created this blog.

Weird, man. Some years the late-May anniversary hits me more than others. This year it was delayed because I've just been so burned out, but when I say down to write this entry, it occurred to me that We're in the 6th June, the first full month of posts I ever did. Oh those mopey mid-teen days, how hard I've tried to move beyond you.

Every so often I think about giving up the blog. The same small collection of acquaintances reads it as ever did. I'm still bummed about the same stuff. Stuff that changes changes and the rest doesn't. But you know, if I deleted this blog, my baggage doesn't go away with it. It just becomes my sole burden again. If I stop writing here, I go back to bottling it all up, which I've felt over the last couple weeks.

Even if I just stop by here a couple of times a week to talk meaningless chit chat or describe a dream I vaguely recall, it's still something, it's still trying to put it all in order. I don't live a frightfully dramatic life. There is a notable distinction between Taylor's emo friends, thirsty for someone to talk to about nothing, and me, happy to not talk about anything, if the distinction makes any sense.

My problem: same as it ever was, I don't know what I want. My wheels spin, I try to go forward. I do what I can.

Eric went home yesterday, sure to return. I feel bad about radiating negativity during the past week, and some but far from all of it was due to him.

Be good and do it.

Seems easy, but you've got to keep it in mind. Getting my shit back on track entails remembering that before and thing can be done, you must do.

See? See? Where would there be for this nonsense without SWP?

See you in a while. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

7:00 AM: You've got to find yourself some pants

2010-05-30T17:13:00.004-04:00

Originally this was a somewhat frustrated post. I wrote it after getting off from a rather frustrating day of work and I needed to vent, but as is often the case I didn't really know what I needed to vent about. But I haven't written in here in so long, and I was ruminating on the reasons for that. Chasing my tail of angst at the world and general self-loathing.

I lost it -- the post -- because I was stupid and logged out of Blogger when I was in the midst of writing it. It rarely happens, and now it feels like this little bit of frustration I had released as snapped back into me. You wouldn't think that it'd matter. You'd think, you know, as long as you put your problems in a balloon and let it float away, it's all the same. I write the post, it doesn't get posted, same effect as if it did, right? Yet somehow, it's not enough for the post to vanish. I need it out there, I need it on the record. It's why I never felt I was accomplishing with say, a personal journal (read: diary) the level of therapy this blog provides. So any time I get self-conscious about the fact that whatever amount of my life is just out there for the whole damn internet to stumble upon (I doubt they will. Mostly random Asians, if the hit tracker is any indication) I just remember it's better than keeping that shit bottled up: whatever needs to stay private, stays private.

Pertinent parts of the lost post:

My brother's back in town, and it's stressful to constantly have someone around.

Last weekend we went to Palmerston for a family gathering (read: my birthday) and saw my cousin for the first time in a couple years. We picked up where we usually do with the same topics and jokes as always and before long we were talking about possible new stories, which might never come to fruition.

At this gathering, he brought his family, including his stepdaughters. The older one's getting to that awkward preteen/tween/early teen age where she's too young for most of the room and too old for the kids. She looked bored and annoyed the entire time. Which admittedly, is unfortunate, but at least she's mellowed out. Hopefully, like many teens, she manages to come out the other side and be sociable.

Obsessively wiping my nose.

A few nights ago, a dream about a girl. Not a particular girl, just a feeling of one. I felt close to her, but there was something keeping us apart. It was weirdly affecting, because in the dream, whatever it was, it worked.

Which is how I guess I know it's a dream.

(D'AWWWWWWWWWWWW) okay thanks for listening. Thanks for being here. Even if you're not really here. Wherever you are. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

6:00 AM: Who put that there?

2010-05-20T00:14:00.002-04:00

I've been exhausting myself for sport lately.

I wake up in the morning -- the alarm goes off at about 9:20 and I can't even be bothered to wrench my eyes open for another hour or so. Not suited for the mornings but not making the most of my evenings. I bought a notebook this afternoon before work and sat in the food court jotting down my thoughts on all the things I believe I should be working on during the evenings (like this evening for instance.) Why I don't is a matter of exhaustion and procrastination, back to procrastinating my procrastinations. There's nothing saying I HAVE to write my stories, but for a little while I had a good rhythm going, and now I've lost it long ago.

I wrote to myself in this notebook that Twitter is a likely culprit. I've gotten so good at compressing thoughts to 140-character statements that I haven't the energy for much else, which is sick. I can't even be bothered to read the comics I keep buying. I haven't finished listening to the Broken Social Scene album either. It was an impulse buy that I appreciate but am not devoted to in the way I am to the more conventional musics I've discovered lately, because more than spacey soundscapes, I love songcraft - verses, lyrics, vocals, refrains, chords, riffs, etc etc. Stuff that BSS really seems to be de-emphasizing. And that works for a lot of people, and it's not like I don't like it.

Sounds recur and disappear, to be enveloped by others.

At the family gathering this past weekend, Aunt Lori asked me what my favourite musical era was. Eric answered for me, "The 60's." I specified, "65-69, then the late 70's, and the early 90's." The Early 90's proclamation is a bit murky, but it allows for my current Nirvana fixation and my lifelong Aerosmith devotion, so in a way it works out. The late 70's had both the arena rock of Aerosmith, the post-glory years of Zeppelin and the Who, and of course, The Clash and the whole CBGB's early Punk scene. Patti Smith and Richard Hell. Elvis Costello, Talking Heads, Bowie's Berlin phase. In a way I like it even more than the late 60's, but what to compare to the second half of the Beatles' career, (Rubber Soul through Abbey Road!) the heyday of the Stones, Who, Zeppelin, Cream, Hendrix, Doors, etc etc.

I'm lame to ramble so. I knew I wasn't going to do any real writing tonight (I wrote down a lot of theoretical writing in the notebook) I just needed the mechanics of putting thoughts into words. Words as gears and cogs. The mind as an infernal machine. Scotto as a lousy simile.

Busy day. Beautiful day. Spent it walking all around Oakville. Comics. Lakeshore. Finally went and got my bike tires filled. Asshole at the gas station pulled the same bullshit he did last year. I'm too non-confrontational to go call him an asshole, because he's an old Indian guy and as pissed off as I was at this repeat behaviour, who has the energy to stay mad about such petty bullshit? (Answer: I do, but not to do anything about it.)

If your curious, the "same bullshit" was that the place has an air pump, and they offer "courtesy air" for bike tires, basketballs, and flotation devices (?) so I go into the On The Go and say "Hey, you have courtesy air, right?" and he says "Yes, you go out and wait, I come turn it on for you." So I go and wait, and twiddle my thumbs while he tends to business, except business never slows down because it's a Goddamn gas station, and I have to wonder, "Isn't there someone else who can help me? Is he the only one capable of turning this thing on AND taking peoples' money for gas? Why bother?" Why fucking bother. I didn't have a problem paying the fifty cent charge for air (yeesh) I just hated being told one thing, being made to wait, and THEN having to pay just to get away from there and stop feeling like a total assclown.

You know?

You know.

So now I have a bike again which means I won't have to leave for work so early anymore. It's only a 20-minute walk, but I like to go early and grab a coffee or just chill before my shift, because what the hell else do I have going on.

So it was work. Pretty chill night, just holding down the fort with Chantelle and Gus. I think we did pretty decent conversion, since not a lot of people came in, but most of them seemed to be buying stuff. At one point there was some drama with the status of Gus' keys, for which we'll be mocking him for a while.

Well hey, I haven't typed anything in a while, guess this entry has ended.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

5:00 AM: This is not even true

2010-05-17T19:05:00.002-04:00

They say familiarity breeds contempt, and generally speaking there's nobody with whom I'm more familiar than myself.

It's hard trying to keep things in perspective and to occasionally reconstruct the universe as a place devoted to my own loneliness. I'm pretty self-obsessed, but I know the errors of self-obsession, which is where I get my rather overdeveloped (some would say) sense of self-deprecation/self-effacement. Don't want anyone to know I care about anything, feel bad about anything, think too hard about how lonely I am. Not that these things are necessarily secrets.

But as sad, as pathetically lonely as that paragraph sounds, you know I'm in a good mood because I'm actually talking about it. When I was feeling particularly bad early last week, I tried to put some shit down in words, but felt embarrassed by how raw of obvious the feelings felt. It's one thing to feel something, it's an entirely other one to put it down in words and have it not seem extremely silly.

We had a family gathering last night and my aunt recalled a story from her childhood where a neighbour lady had an affair with a young girl who must've been 16 or 17. It was shocking but nobody did anything, because in those days you didn't do things. You didn't call the cops or start a neighbourhood campaign or do an investigation or whatever, you did nothing. You found out about it and then you tried not to look the neighbour lady in the eye ever again, you said nothing. And she mused that it's funny how far things have come, yet become much more complicated and painful to deal with, now that we talk about things. Your mileage may vary on which is better.

Several shards of stories exist in my head and I don't know how to begin. Presumably with fingers tapping keys. Asdf.

I'm not in much of a state to be writing tonight anyhow, since my brain is pudding. It was to be a day off, but at 8:30 I got the sound of a buzzing cell phone, which indicated somebody wanted me to take a shift. That was Chantelle, who was feeling ill. So I did it, because if not me, then who? Nobody left but me. Luckily the hiring process has begun.

Basically, I don't know what I'm saying or why I even said it.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

4:00 AM: This is Science

2010-05-16T23:42:00.003-04:00

It's a double post tonight, so if you're just reading this, scroll down to 3:00 AM to get the first part of my ramblings tonight.

A couple of weeks ago I went through a great spurt of productivity, but for reasons probably related to exhaustion I haven't been nearly as active lately. I go to the comic store week after week and yet I haven't actually read a comic in over a month, feels like. Been over a week since I wrote anything significant, too.

I'm my own problem. I'll deal with me.

I had a good rhythm at one point, and I just got disrupted, distracted, whatever. Work, life, whatever gets in the way does. Life's not perfect.

If there's a lot to me, I think I hide it well. I'm a man of simple motivations and complex intentions.

I hung out with Vasa on Friday. It was one of the most deliberate efforts I've ever made to hang out with anybody, as we went all the way out to Toronto, since she was working that evening. We met up around 12:30 for coffee, talked a while, then started to shamble our way around the city, talking about geekdom, school and life. We never talk about anything serious, and she guides the conversation pretty well, which is nice and probably a clue to how we overcame the initial oddness of our friendship. She paid me the best compliment I think I've had as a person, which is that I was "hard to read."

The other best compliment I think I've had was regarding the emotional truth of Half-Past, as spoken by Robyn's dad.

Anyway. Friday was really chill. We wandered around the city a while, went to the Eaton Center, talked about Lost and Scott Pilgrim and music. She recounted a story about how she had to take her sister shopping at that mall and, having lost her patience for the typical female shopping instinct, just sat in the food court reading a book, like my dad would. I'm always interested in stories of people (mostly women) operating against stereotypes of their gender.

Eric was over for the weekend. Saturday was a busy day and I didn't even work. I didn't get much what you would call "peace and quiet" due to his presence, but whatever. Saturday morning, dad and Deb took us to an IMAX screening of Iron Man 2, which was good (very good sequel, although it largely mimics the plot of the original) and then Saturday evening we went out for Sushi with Uncle Alan and Aunt Pat. B. was not present for any of this, having stolen my gimmick of being unable to eat in public (I, meanwhile, seem to be getting better, having dealt with my own problems in trial and error over years.) The other 5 got Bento boxes, although Aunt Pat and Uncle Alan just didn't seem to dig the whole sushi gimmick, while I just got a spread of sushi and California rolls. I figured out chopsticks, kind of.

Dad and Deb then took us out to Hamilton, where we all attended a stag and doe. Jon, our old friend from the trailer, is getting married, and this was what Amanda would affectionately (or not) call a "cash grab." I wasn't sure whether I wanted to go, but I decided this was better than the alternative, which was nothing. Since Dad and Deb are good friends with Jon's parents, and I was always close with his younger sister Alison. So there was someone there for everybody.

So we got there, and in the first twenty or thirty minutes I had spent up all the allotted "what's going on?" conversation and had dug deep into the well of "back in the day" conversation. Talk about talking about old times (see the 3:00 post below.) For a brief stretch in the middle, Eric and I just stood around with absolutely nothing to occupy us, feeling as awkward as anyone ever did (and for us that's saying something.) There were a couple of games, little 2-dollar challenges and amusements.

So.

One of them was rolling a ping pong ball down a measuring tape into a cup several times, trying to get the best time. I did this a couple times, then when it became clear that my talent did not lie in ping pong ball rolling, I gave up, and just started to joke around with the girl running the game.

This was more or less a miraculous occurrence and let me explain why. I can't even remember what I said to begin with or how I found the wherewithal to say it, but somehow this developed into a really captivating conversation. I had found a girl at a freaking "CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR IMPENDING MARRIAGE HERE IS SOME MONEY" party I could joke around about the divorce rate and mock the institution of marriage with, make self-deprecating jokes about myself, and talk about, of all things, LOST. Every conceivable way this conversation could've gone well, it did, but alas, my lack of ambition caught up with me and I was not prepared when she had to leave early.

I mean, really, all I wanted was somebody to talk to, somebody to hang out with, to keep me from sulking in the corner for a significant portion of the evening. I got that. I was too mystified by what had actually happened to bother sulking over what could have been. That came later.

But hey, you know, that's life. My ticket won a door prize, and all I had to choose from was a lousy baseball cap, a too-big sweater, or other prizes I just didn't understand. I picked the hat. It didn't occur to me until too laten that a smooth play would've been to write info inside the hat and give it to her a "memento."

Truth in television, though, it really was just enough for me to really connect with someone through conversation. What it was, when it happened, and how it went, that's all I needed. The simple things.

Today was work, then a relatively chill family gathering (Cam wasn't around for much of it so I got a break from being a punching bag.) Which is good because after this week I didn't really feel like much of anything. I taught him a new curseword, which is also the name of my band, which is Plurg. Plurg: It's like Broken Social Scene, but with more members, less music, and more broken.

Sometimes I tack on unrelated musings or big life observations at the end of my posts, stalling before I reach the inevitable end. This time, I have some stuff to muse on, but not the energy, so I'll stow it, save it, put it away for a rainy day.

I just need a good rest. I just need to recharge. I'll be back up to full power yet.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

3:00 AM: You have to know how the song goes

2010-05-16T22:54:00.002-04:00

I'll take advantage while you hang me out to dry, but I can't see you every night, free.

At this rate, I'll be lucky to make it to noon. Hmm hmm hm hmm.

I've been on kind of a Nirvana kick lately. It's important to me to have something I can talk with my co-workers about, and most of us like Nirvana. I got a copy of this book, Heavier Than Heaven, a biography of Kurt Cobain, which several of them have already read. Not surprisingly, it gets just a little depressing near the end. It paints a great portrait of someone who felt everything so seriously and so sincerely, had a hard time dealing with the world around him and his own body (he was plagued by mysterious stomach pains his entire life, which he sought to remedy with heroin) and was frankly unprepared for the level of fame and success he achieved, despite aspiring toward it his whole life. He was a giant clusterfuck of contradictions, and in that way, flawed and human. I used to think there was some uncertainty as to whether he had actually killed himself, now I can't really see it ending any other way. He's definitely a controversial figure. Far from a rolemodel. You don't have to love his music, or the trends it inspired, but I think if nothing else you have to pity the poor kid for the way things got out of hand (if you don't currently, you probably would after reading this book which shows his life after 1991 as pretty much a constantly escalating catastrophe, largely of his own doing.)

When I was in Grade 8, some of my classmates were really into Nirvana, although I really started to investigate them searching after the attention of a girl in Grade 10. I hear the lyrics to "About A Girl" as represented above and I think of those times when all I ever wanted was someone to listen to my shit.

It's been a busy, trying week. I've tried to write posts a number of times, but I get frustrated and lose interest. It began with a party. Last weekend, there was a get-together of many of us old WOSS kids. Cary related to us all the shocking details of how his parents had a brush with danger while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, and we all both recounted the old times and mused about what it meant for there to be old times. Conorton appeared, much to all our pleasant surprise. When I found myself unable to express anything worthwhile in the company of people I've known for years and years, I went and chatted up a girl Cary had introduced me earlier in the night.

I have this thing I do that is often incorrectly characterized as "hitting on." I couldn't hit on a girl if my life depended on it, but what I do at parties is to find some female I've never met and engage her in conversation (and yes, on very rare occasions it goes exceptionally well.) But maybe it's just I'm too reserved to really go for it the way the phrase "hit on" implies. So I say I "chat up."

Cary, for what it's worth, says "hit on."

The week was more than a little bit of a blur after the weekend and a visit with Robyn, who was back in town. The after-result of this meet-up was to be the subject of my first attempt at writing this post, but I lost patience with myself as I am wont to do. Shit that seemed really important and really serious doesn't feel so significant here and now, which means there's just not a way to recreate the situation I initially described... with words.

A big topic of discussion this week at work was performance review, which occasioned my manager to pretty much put into words how she felt about everyone in the store. Some fared better than others. I fared fine, although my inability to vacuum has become the HMV equivalent of a popular YouTube video. There are some personal issues that came up, which I won't summarize (and thus expose my bias) as this is a public forum and I really don't wanna air other peoples' shit. What it all amount to, though, is that the staff will be shaking up a lot more than expected, which means, holy fuck are we gonna need someone soon. Shee-it. Especially considering Andy's gone after... today.

Oh, Andy. Man. How time flies. Whatever personal heat I had with him (which was inevitably completely on my side) he was a good employee and did his job faithfully. He never did learn to laugh at himself though, and by midway through the day, I was back to casually remarking on his racism and watching him desperately take my charges seriously and explain to me why he has a right to white pride and why "my politically correct viewpoint" is part of a larger societal problem (which is a hilarious misapprehension of the situation and the main proof of my point that he has no sense of humour about himself. He's goofy and likable, but can't take a joke, which is one of the things I just can't stand. He's just way too easy to get riled up.)

So I was hired back in January alongside him and Jamie, and then Jamie left, and Jamie's replacement Sarah left in April, and she wasn't replaced unless you count Chantelle who came back a few months ago, and now Andy's going and Alan (full-timer) will be transferring in a couple weeks, which means, uh, yeah, we'd better get somebody new in pronto.

Anyway. I've got more to say on this palindromic week but I'm going to halt this post and start a new one. So come back soon.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

2:00 AM: This is why you're you

2010-05-06T00:08:00.002-04:00

A lot of my writing concerns the question of what it means to be who you are. Whether being stuck in our natural human physical forms means being stuck in a certain pattern of behaviour and identity, or whether such things are malleable.

I rambled a bit about this on my American Fiction exam essay. If I'd had time to collect my thoughts on the matter I might've said something worthwhile but as it was I pointed out a few examples, connected them in a threadbare, almost obligatory way, and summed it all up with characteristically specious generalizations. I have problems with myself, with the way my communication does not always match my intention.

Comedy is often, almost always in fact, a product of set behaviour. That's why randomness doesn't necessarily hold up, because "classic" comedy, in the vein of vaudeville and even Monty Python, is constructed around the bearing forth, and often subversion, of expected behaviour. This character acts a certain way. Once you start thinking about exceptions, you give the character nuance, which is a difficult trick to make work in comedy. Not impossible. Don't think I'd ever say something like that is impossible.

But I can't overthink it, and it's not my goal to philosophize on the nature of comedy. Not tonight anyhow (I've often found it fruitless to attempt to categorize comedy as this or that, because in all the rigidity of form there is also contradictions.)

The question was whether the body is the home of the truth: as various books in the class dealt with questions of racial and gender uncertainty. If I'd given it more thought (and by that I mean, like, two weeks' worth) I'd say that it is introduced as a source of important truth, but then subverted and devalued. Subverted in that while the truth is empirically true (Coleman Silk is black, Calliope Eugenides is physically a boy) in both cases it is proven more malleable than one would think, thus giving a level of untruth to the truth. In "The Things They Carried" (and in a more prosaic sense in "So Far From God") the very idea of a dead body is subverted, because what is death but an alteration of one's perception of a person's identity? I remember when I was at my Grandad's funeral last year and the pastor said that death didn't mean he was gone, only that our relationship to him had changed. This is pretty much the entire point of the last story in "The Things They Carried."

We're stuck as ourselves. This is what I keep coming back to. I write because of my desire to imagine lives that are not my own: that are similar, but with different opportunities and traits. Something external that can be controlled. Because I've always found the idea of living one's whole life only one way somewhat strange, in the way that you look at your fingers one day and think "I never realized how odd my knuckles are." Normal but odd.

Today was that uninteresting that that's what I've come to talk about. I worked all day. Conversed with my co-workers on the usual way, expressed the same frustrations as always. There's a lot of frustration but at the same time job satisfaction is a tricky thing. I can't imagine having a better work scenario, not at this point in my life and times. So whatever burden I'm carrying, I will. In four months, a lot of my co-workers will be gone, some of them very, very soon, or at least working fewer shifts. The idea of seeing the entire staff of the store turn over is a little scary. You get used to certain people's presence, certain routines, dynamics.

We'll see how things change.

Well, it's after 12:30. I shout probably get cooking if I'm going to do any writing tonight. Most nights lately, when I've written, I've gotten a new story out there. Tonight I feel like redrafting one, because I was have trouble with it, and then at work I was having one of my usual daydreaming sessions and a new element clicked into my head.

We'll see how it goes.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

1:00 AM: The Unsophisticated

2010-05-04T23:02:00.003-04:00

I woke up this morning feeling queasy and unpleasant.

It sounds stupid, at 23 years old, to feel some pleasure with having nearly drank myself into oblivion. I should prize being able to hold my liquor and be ashamed of my bodily functions. But last night at 2 AM, as I hunched over the toilet wheezing up the contents of my stomach (at this point, mostly gin and 7up) I felt a sweet euphoric sensation, a catharsis for the night. Literally getting it all out of my system.

It was Chris Ferg's goodbye party. He'll be spending the summer in Europe, one of many friends who simply will not be around over the next few months. I've gotten very used to going long periods of time without seeing certain people, and I've gotten very good at making up for it when I can.

The day was unremarkable. I worked early, which was a bummer, but it was a short 4-hour shift. I hauled a box of books home from the mall, $2 worth of kids' books and activities at 10 cents apiece donated to the Coles Love of Reading fund. It was my mistake to attempt this without any sort of transportation. Some problems you make yourself.

I arrived fashionably late for the Goodbye party, strolling in the door at 9 after getting a call from Pat wondering where I was. For parties where I don't need a ride over, I tend to delay leaving because I don't like just showing up early because I'm awkward like that.

The party was mainly just a large group of people, the usual Chris Ferg-related suspects, sitting in a circle in the living room. I started in on the Gin and 7up and started to make the rounds, talking plays and old times with Cary, (at one point reading aloud a text he sent me at 5 in the morning back in December when we went to Denny's) and going on various subjects with CB, Pat, Chris and Ryan. At one point, I was describing to Ryan an incident that happened at work some weeks ago with a female customer, and as I was using some self-consciously flowery adjectives to describe her (she had "honey in her voice,") the room went silent, which is always nice.

By the time I got around to Lauren, whom I so rarely see, I was absolutely soused. Cary once spoke to me of various levels of drunkenness; "Handsy drunk," "belligerent drunk," etc. By the time I got to Lauren, I was "Fake British Accent" drunk (a very sad level indeed) and heading toward "Expounding on the nature of creativity" drunk. Lauren and I actually spoke at length, moreso than I think we have in years, which is a shame since I can barely much of the content of the conversation, although we did talk about my childhood friendship with her brother. With some of the other various partygoers, I did routines about the finer points of gin, and of course there was a mandatory group conversation about LOST.

As it got later, the party dispersed. Half the crew wanted to go to Montclair (for what I don't know) but Lauren, Tyler and I skipped that and went to Sixth Line Pub. I was well past the waterline of drunkenness at this point. I was "barely vertical" drunk. I stupidly bought another drink, then smartly declined to drink it.

We talked on and on and on about writing and I'm not sure I said anything that made sense, but I didn't do a ton of the talking. Whenever I'm drunk I attempt to summarize my short story collection concept to anybody who will listen. That's not true, but it has happened more than once (at the Half-Past afterparty, where a nice girl made the mistake of pursuing that line of inquisition.) I also described the situation with my romantic life, but since I was so drunk you can't take what I was saying at face value because I have a habit of blurring the facts to be more a reflection of desire than of actuality. That isn't to say there's no truth in what I was saying, just that it's not a hard and fast truth. More of a subjective, possible one. I live in a Tim O'Brien book.

The conversation was rather engaging, especially since it mainly served as mental stimulation to keep me from vomiting until I could do so alone. I consider it a private matter. Everyone who drinks with me knows I'm prone to fits of stomach upheaval. It's not even a little bit of a secret. Sometimes it comes early in the night due to social awkwardness, and sometimes it comes late due to over-indulgence. The latter, which this was, has a preferable cause but a more crushing aftermath, since I then have to go to bed.

So I said my goodbyes and walked home, got in the door, started to drink water, popped a Tylenol, and promptly started retching in the washroom. Oh, the humanity -- but of a private nature.

Like I said, I acknowledge and even celebrate the fact that I do it. I can't help it, but I'm good about it, I always clean up, I never throw up anyplace that leaves damage. I'm responsible. But if someone were to be with me when I was doing it, I'd feel embarrassed, weak. It's one thing for me to be weak, but I'm not keen on others getting a look at just how weak I am.

So the next morning I still felt ill, and it was hours before I was back to 100%. I wouldn't describe it as a hangover, since a hangover is usually defined by a headache of some kind and I don't tend to get those.

I had to mow the lawn today, which sucked because a spring of neglect had left it rather wild out there and it took me about half the job (and several blown fuses from overtasking the mower) to realize the problem could be remedied by raising the height of the blade. So I ended up with an uneven, but complete job.

Still no weedwhacker though.

Despite my fits of productivity, I still have a lot of work to do. But I managed to get a lot out there in a short period of time, so I'm not stressing about it. I wrote enough that my dreams became less vivid scenarios and more vague feelings. I wake up in the morning knowing I dreamed, but not having come up with anything worth remembering, which means my creative energies are sufficiently being used.

I still have a big webcomic in mind, but my artist suggested we try something smaller, which I agree is an important test. If we work well on it, we can go on to the big epic project. Better than committing to something that won't work out in the long run.

As I was telling people, you know, I have no complaints right now, which is rare. Not everything's perfect, in fact, nothing's perfect and I wouldn't want it to be. Everything is ideally imperfect in my world. All the imperfections are right. Nothing is tragic. Everything is real.

How long can I keep this up?

Let's just keep no rockin'
-Scott

Midnight: Run for it!

2010-05-02T23:30:00.002-04:00

Think about the events that led to the greatest moments of your life. How many of them are random coincidences? You were in the right place at the right time, you happened to know the right person, the right thought came into your head.

I'm interested in the idea of meaningful coincidences. I don't happen to believe in fate per se... I believe that the influence of different elements is too difficult to truly divine the exact outcome of anything too far in advance. Butterfly effect and all that shit. Things seem pre-ordained in hindsight when they turn out well (or spectacularly shitty.) But things always have to keep happening no matter what, so of course it's going to seem that way. you say the right thing to the right stranger on Omegle and suddenly you have a new friend. You fail to say the right thing to a girl you know in real life, and for years afterward you regret it while she dates someone else.

So much ink has been spilled on the place of human agency in predestination, much of which I don't remember properly from First Year Philosophy.

One of the nicest episodes of How I Met Your Mother, from season two, goes on this theme. It's called "Lucky Penny," and peels back a series of events to their causes, none of which could've been known at the time. It is, in the broad sense, a statement on the method of the show. Of course, nearing the end of the 5th seasons and starting to get a bit too broad with its already-comically exaggerated characters, should start thinking about its endgame.

Anyway. There's no real way to explain the causation that led me to applying to Sheridan's Print Journalism program when I was in high school, but it has been the root of much of the life I have lived since. That application was "the nail" of my life. It was because I was there that I applied to HMV for the first time four years ago, which led to my being there today and on an ongoing basis (for whatever influence that has on my life.) It was because of Sheridan that I became friends with Amanda, who influences my life regularly, and whose life I influence (I have expressed doubt that she would be working at Cole's right now without my friendship, but she disputes this.)

Hell, if I had not been at Sheridan when the teachers were on strike in March 2006 -- if I'd gone to U of T or some other school -- I would never have made friends with Robyn. And that would be different.

Of course, what I'm talking about is on a much smaller scale. In the cosmic sense, it is a totally insignificant moment in time, but it was such an odd series of events that I felt it was worth noting.

I went out to Mississauga to see Joe play last night at a Starbucks. I got my dad to give me a lift up there, and when I told him the address, he said "Oh, I know where that is," and, after glancing at the GPS on his blackberry, we began our trip. A short while later we arrived at the supposed location, only for him to double-check and find that he had gotten the wrong location altogether, taken the 403 when he should've taken the QEW. Hurm. So being in one of my rare Zen moods, I just rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and said "Nobody's perfect." The actual location was only a ways down Hurontario, but we were getting late for what I thought was he start time.

We ended up at what I was sure was the location, but Joe and Viki were noticeably not there, and it looked a bit small for a performance, although every Starbucks seems that way. I was beginning to feel somewhat stressed, trying to get a hold of Joe for confirmation when they appeared in the parking lot. After significant shuffling of the furniture, they began to play.

At one early point before the performance started, I was making small talk with Viki's mom. It's always nice that they know me, ask how I'm doing, when I could just be some kid who's friends with their daughter's boyfriend and is constantly begging everyone around for a ride.

Yes, I pulled my usual game of getting out there with no real plan to get home. It usually works out okay for me, and worst comes to worse I'm not above Taxi fare. But more on this later. The show itself was a lengthy one consisting mostly of originals, the favourites to begin with, with the few early convers including a Glee-inspired Lionel Richie cover (not a fan, but I'm not here to pass judgment on all Earth.)

After the show, the initial plan was to get me to the train station as quickly as possible and then they'd go off and do whatever, but when we got to the train station we were about 10 minutes late, so we figured that with the last train coming two hours later, I might as well join them for food/good times.

Earlier that day, I'd had a bizarre moment with Amanda where we'd gone to visit her Cole's co-workers, and they all, four of them, began talking about work and stuff while I just stood there like a goober. At one point Manda made fun of me for not joining in the conversation more and I explained, with a hint of desperation, that with too many other people around I tend to get lost in the conversational shuffle.

The magic number is three. If it's me and two other people, I can usually participate, Because an effort is made. With four people, it's inevitable that someone will get left out, and that someone usually winds up being me, just because that's how I am. Five is pretty awful unless I can break into a separate conversation with one other person. Six develops into two distinct conversations altogether sometimes, but by the time you get to seven, you're back around to the original problem.

We ended up going to Turtle Jack's. The total number of castmembers for this evening was eight: Joe, Viki, me, three old friends of Joe's, and two classmates from his current program. At this point it's entirely possible there will be two or even three whole consecutive conversations that will cut me out, because of how close everyone else is and there were indeed times I felt like a 2-time odd-man out. But there were also times when I was just doing shtick for everyone around the table, and it seemed to go well. It helped that I was drinking.

The conversation lasted just long enough. By the time we headed back to the Clarkson GO, there was a mysterious Oakville bus in the terminal. It being about ten minutes before the train would arrive, I raced over to it and asked whether it was going to the Oakville station. The driver said, "Sure, but don't expect this to ever happen again." Fair enough, I thought: I'm never in Mississauga anyhow. I go through my change and find that I'm actually lacking a bit of change, but he tells me just to give "whatever I've got." He takes me on a night ride and I try to memorize the Bus number in case he kidnaps me and I escape.

I got to the station before the train would even have left Clarkson. It was a nice night, so I walked home, getting in the door probably later than if I'd taken the train then ridden the Zone bus. Then I proceeded to stay up late so that I'd be good and miserable the next day at school.

It's not much of a story, but it felt improbable at the time. Why was that bus there? How did I manage to get there in time to catch it? Etc etc.

Today was exhausting. Work nice and early at 10, followed by a family gathering immediately after, and of course desperate pleas from Cameron to wrestle, and desperate pleas from Ali that I don't have to wrestle if I don't want to. I was so conflicted that I desperately found them other things to do. It was a nice day, though.

Tomorrow morning, working an early shift again. I should bring this entry in for a landing.

I counted them all up. I'm planning 16 stories for my collection. About a month ago I had 3 drafted up (mainly ones that are old and that I'm looking to re-do.) Since then I've increased that number to ten, including a couple I hadn't thought of at the time of my initial count, which was a 13-story total. If I'm going to pursue this project (and the amount of effort I've put into it, along with the amount of time I've spent with it suggests I am) I definitely need a lot of revisions, but at the same time, it feels exhilarating to get this far into it. There have been times when I've written versions of these stories that felt like such absolute crap that I didn't even count them, and now it's becoming clearer.

I'm aiming for about 35,000 words total: a short work, all things considered, it's well below the "NaNo" number of 50,000, but at the same time, it is what it is. These stories do not beg to be longer than they already are. One of them is a mere 250 words (the one I'm most proud of, matter of fact.)

Well, enough rambling. I'm stalling. I've got to sleep.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

Eleven: Results not typical

2010-04-30T02:21:00.002-04:00

This is one of those entries, which used to be so common, where I don't really have anything to say.

In fact, I shouldn't even be saying this nothing. I should just go off to bed. After all, it's 2:23 in the morning as I type this and nobody would fault me for crashing at this perfectly unreasonable hour. But after a relatively short day at work (despite the fact that before that I was walking all around town) and a second dinner I'm all keyed up on sugar and whatever, so I need to burn off the energy with typing.

As I mentioned the other night I've been rather productive lately. I managed to avoid a prolonged period of bitching about how I had all this free time but couldn't force myself to write. The stars aligned and my initial burst of freedom has been accompanied by a satisfactory amount of output. It's generally of a decent quality, too. I'm just proud to be doing it, since nothing disgusts me more than being the guy who says "Hurr, I have all these ideas but I can't write them." Bullshit. In high school, that's all I did (accounting for my occasionally substandard performance.)

Some of these stories have been in my head for years, some are practically on-the-spot. The longer you spend thinking about a story without actually writing it, the harder it becomes to actually get it out on the page. You get attached to it as this thing that exists completely in your head and feel less inclined to transcribe it (even though in transcribing it you tend to have to negotiate things like syntax and narrative structure, which generally aren't enforced in the head.) Sometimes, when you write it out, the entire meaning of a story changes.

I think I would hate to hang out with myself. If I had a clone, you know, one of those instant-replicated personality clones, like in Multiplicity, I wouldn't get along with him because I would be aware of all his bullshit, and he mine. We'd constantly be analyzing each other and trying to explain how we had it wrong about ourselves. If there was one guy who was not meant to live in harmony with himself, it's me. I don't know how other people stand me, sometimes. "Jesus, would you listen to the shit that comes out of your mouth?"

I know this sounds harsh, but I mean it lovingly.

Then again, I'm the guy who often mutters to himself while grocery shopping, "I hate people, I hate all other people, I hate all humans."

I was talking to Cary about the new play, plus this other idea I had. As far as plays go, the current one is top priority. I also am still really enthusiastic about that webcomic idea, but structure as always has proven a bit of a stumbling block. It's one thing to have an idea, it's another to present it.

I have so many stupid things on my mind and not a Goddamn one of them is important. This is why I don't sleep. I wrote a story about that.

Some nights it feels like the Jenga blocks of my mind are ready to tumble.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Ten: Slow Down Time

2010-04-27T21:22:00.005-04:00

No particular place to go.

Times like these are why I have video games. In a way I am actively shunning productivity, but I've already drafted up a whole bunch of stories this past week, so I don't need to prove anything to myself. I keep getting ideas, and many of those ideas are the type that just improve old ideas. Good new ways of looking at things, keys that unlock projects that had long since stalled.

When I started writing short stories -- in fall 2005, although I'd made some very unimpressive stabs earlier -- I was trying to uncover the raw thread of emotional truth, the way young writers do when they think they have something to say. Lately, my tact has been more to obscure that emotional truth the way it is in real life. Instead of having a character break down and cry, I'm more likely to just have them stunned, wondering whether they should cry. Uncertainty feels like the only remaining emotion I can tackle, because every time I try to make my characters sad, I ask myself, what right do these people have to feel so sorry for themselves? And sometimes that's the point, and sometimes it's not.

At the same time, I don't want to make it seem like I'm handing down life lessons. Everybody feels shitty sometimes, lord knows I do. Everyone who's ever read this blog for any length of time knows I do. It's communicating that they gets hard. In public, we don't all run around expressing our emotional states all the time. Human body language is rather cryptic and interpretive. Sometimes you're depressed, sometimes you're just tired.

I believe lately that less is more. That may be why I gravitate toward Hemingway so much: not because of what he writes about, but how he writes it. My philosophy used to be to dig as deeply into my characters' stories as possible, making each one long long long. And sometimes you'll still see that, but increasingly they are, like other people, shrouded in mystery. My favourite story that I've written recently is only about 300 words long and barely seems to be about anything.

My dreams are getting weirdly vivid, which usually signifies creative energy. At least, in my head.

The other day I was walking down the sidewalk and this girl is coming the other direction by bike. She seems to look in my direction, so when I think it's safe I look over at her to see if she's someone I know. She must have caught me because then I catch her swinging her head around to glance at me again. Finally I just stopped and straight-up looked at her, and she back at me. I even waved, and she acknowledged. It was an awkward, "Do I know you?" wave. Then she called out: "ARE YOU CHRIS?"

"NO...!"

And off she went.

And I was left wondering what if I had been Chris.

Doesn't she at least know what he looks like?

You can't make this shit up.

I was on Omegle the other night (as I am wont to do) and I was talking to this high school aged kid, a grade 9, to be specific. I consoled him, "Well, that's hell." He agreed.

It got me thinking about it. I don't happen to long for my high school days. If I had them back, I'd likely waste them the same way I'm wasting my present days. I'd be better at dealing with people, but I'd still be super-introverted. With the exception of Grade 12 it was complete and unavoidable awkwardness for this kid, and Grade 12 began a years-long process of growing out of that shit.

But if we've been following along this long, long story, we know about that.

Anyway, this conversation got me reflecting on just how bad it was. It's healthy to be able to engage with old angst and to not feel it anymore. Every girl I ever wanted that didn't want me. Every dude that ever made fun of me for whatever stupid thing (and believe me, after Grade 9, very few dared to engage me in that kind of smack talk, I had a pretty sharp mouth.)

It was hell, and I don't miss it, but I don't regret it either, oddly enough.

Well, as I often tell my e-sister, there's nothing wrong with either of us.

One final bit of self-deprecation for the night. Although I'm not terribly desperate for companionship at the moment I find myself browsing the usual stupid online dating site. More and more it seems impossible that I'll meet anyone there. In real life you have no control over who you might meet and how you might feel about them. In the internet and specifically no a site like that, you get to make a statement about what you're looking for and what you think you deserve.

And if I may permit myself a moment of understated self-hatred, I don't think I would ever fit someone's ideal criteria.

Oh sure, I'm awesome. That is to say I have many good, hard to define qualities to offset the unappealing things about me, but I'm not the kind of guy who looks good on paper. The real world is calling.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Nine: Here among us

2010-04-25T01:26:00.002-04:00

Things you realize for no good reason after midnight #809: I would not make a good booty call participant.

I don't think I have it in me. Just the pure "no strings attached, let's hook up" situation. Friends with benefits, maybe, who knows. Boyfriend, I have absolutely no idea. Guy you call just to fuck and never see otherwise, no. Highly unlikely.

I think about things like this as I wait for the washroom to make itself available so I can brush my teeth and go to bed. In theory this is "reason to move out #612" but really, if I move out, aren't I just sharing the washroom with someone else, working around their schedule?

Well, life is a never-ending series of compromises.

Today wasn't even post-worthy, but I had this thought and I felt like it might as well get posted. Work was dull, although I made up a dance to amuse my co-workers. I ran into someone unexpectedly later in the evening, and though it was a meaningless non-event to that person, it bothered me to the point where it indirectly led to the thought that opened this entry.

wrote a couple stories last night to alleviate my angst. I don't write depression well when I'm bummed because it makes me feel lame about the whole depression thing. Oddly enough it tends to veer my writing more toward the, if not comedic, then at least the sardonic. I just ask myself "Why should this matter?"

So I've written some pretty off-beat stories lately. For the most part they were already in my head but the timing was such that they were able to come out properly. Sometimes it's hard to be true to whatever you envisioned in the first place.

Short stories are a medium with certain contradictions. You want it to feel complete and yet completeness takes on a whole different meaning in that context. It isn't as much about problem-solution storytelling as it is about event-aftermath. The movie "Night on Earth" was actually the one that started me thinking about short stories. "Dubliners" by Joyce more or less codified it, and Hemingway played his part. Icebergs and shit. I've talked about this a lot lately. I'm recapturing my enthusiasm for writing in general.

I want to set myself apart from every other asshole who claims to be a writer: I want to be a very particular asshole. I want everyone to know I'm kidding. Everything nowadays is either off-the-wall madness that gets old after a few moments of hilarity (Internet meme style) or serious business about how cripplingly painful one person's feelings are. The middleground is so rarely explored, I feel.

Or maybe I'm just reading too much Writers Cafe stuff. I mean, if that signifies anything about the way these folks write, yeesh. No offense to the people there, but have you seen the people there? Everything is a tragedy for them.

What is one person's broken heart? What is one death? What is any missed opportunity? We've got an entire world out there, and I've always (or at least, over the past several years) found it problematic to really believe my problems are more important or interesting than anyone else's.

Which makes it weird that I write whats I do here, but I think this viewpoint has been represented thoroughly over the year.

I'm just a few hundred words on a screen night after night. You're in pain and it sucks, or you're happy and it sucks for me.

Well, I do my best. That's all I've got.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Eight: I could be anyone

2010-04-23T22:56:00.002-04:00

Today's post's title from a scrap of language I scrawled on my arm during my exam today. I was working on my essay for the last portion and of course I found some way, mentally, to connect it to something I'm writing. Everything I'm writing. Everything ever written.

"I could be anyone." I wrote yesterday about how stupid I feel for having my characters sum up the theme of the work within the stories. So I do these first drafts where it's patently obvious, and then I find ways to filter it all out. That line more or less crystallizes it. No need to further explain it, I don't think. Two characters meet for the first time. "I could be anyone." As far as you know. That's what's so exciting. I had to write it on my arm to get the feeling down so that it would stick with me. I hate forgetting things like that.

So today. The first time I've felt the enthusiasm for dragging my ass out of bed at a reasonable hour since, well, my last exam. I've been a sleep fiend all week, I get a late start on the day, spend the rest of it doing catch-up and before I know it it's time to start thinking about dinner. Day after day after day and the worst so far is that I'm not even working during the weeks right now, which is a first. I mean, even during the school year they were hanging extra shifts all over my availability, Monday after Monday, Friday after Friday, and I didn't mind, although I had to admit it drained me for all those papers I had to write. Oh man, those papers. And now, time unlimited, and now they have me go five days without a shift. Sheesh.

And I like closing on Mondays.

But okay. There's only so many shifts to go around. So it's really just my problem.

So here we are today. After walking from Union to campus (because hey, I've got time and it's a nice day) I meet up with my friend Daron in front of the exam site. We talk about the class, and school in general, and life. I like having her as a friend because she can pretty much talk forever. A real motormouth on that one. It's funny, too, how we end up having class together time after time, although I'm not sure it'll repeat next year.

We both speculated on our strengths and weaknesses going into the exam (which books we had read or ignored) and whether studying was even necessary. Not to be, like, cocky, but with English exams, you either know the books or you don't. And you can study a bit, but there's no telling what'll end up being relevant. This is where my "If you know it, you know it" mantra comes in. If you read the books, you read the books. If you saw the film, you saw the film.

Well anyway. I feel like I did really well on the various identifications and passages. The essay (40 of the 100 marks) I feel like I just rambled. Which is often the case, with varying results. One of the exam topics was pretty much my essay, (use of mythology in three books, or so.) so I didn't do that one. The other one was about whether there is any inherent truth in the body, as many books used body themes. Race. Gender. Even death.

I had some points buried in the large heaps of undistinguished obviousness I was slinging, obfuscated by occasional philosophizing. I mentally checked out in early March, which is a shame since that's before I wrote all my papers.

I handed the essay in and got my paper back, and it was about what I expected. I was expecting low to mid 70's, due to having turned it in a day late (3 mark penalty.) I was particularly pissed off about the lateness because had I not been an idiot it would've been avoidable. And I fucking needed those three marks, if only for my own emotional gratification. A 75 would've felt half decent, going out on a 72 is a bit of a bummer especially considering the weak sauce I delivered on that exam.

I also felt like I should have delivered, like, an 80-- but I started spinning out of control. Basically, the verdict, which I happen to agree with, is that I started getting into ideas too big for an 8-page paper. This hurt, obviously, both the presentation and the content. So it isn't that I'm an idiot or anything, I'm just a renegade who needs to be cut down to size.

Well, that's one particularly self-glorifying way of putting it.

And then that was it. I got on a train and went home. Goodbye third year. I had dinner with dad (B. was at the King Tut thing at the ROM.) and came home and just felt... bummed, man.

I mean, shit. It hasn't been the easiest semester of my life but it may have been the most fulfilling. I actively enjoyed the last 4 months, as crazy as they've been. I liked the classes, I liked the people, I liked the routine, and for the most part I did it well with only a few exceptions. More than that, the craziness gave me a compass orientation, a direction, a motivation, a driving force. Just to get up in the morning and tromp downstairs and leave the house and get coffee and get on a train morning after morning. It worked. It felt good. Then to come back and put on my shirt and get to work, and to feel like I had no time to myself. Man, it was so convenient, being able to blame lack of personal productivity on that. Now there's nothing. I feel so grown up, it's disgusting, being annoyed by the potential for idleness, feeling so helpless without being spurred on by a constant routine.

I mean shit, man, I even took summer school classes last year. I haven't had this much idleness ahead of me in years. But here I am and here we are and there you go.

Well I guess instead of moaning about it I ought to enjoy it. I ought to seize the opportunity about it. Hell, I even already gave myself this pep talk.

I've got stuff, I've got it in the works. It may be midnight, but the night isn't over yet. Maybe I'll get to it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto