The Slow Motion Suicides

The Anchor States Part I

2013-12-31T11:37:00.000-05:00

Friends,

We live in a deceptive world. In the year 1837, you'd have seen the original title of this missive (Final Resolution) crossed out and replaced with the title above. Amidst the pen strokes you might even pick up on the sureness with which the original title was eschewed (a decisive eastward stroke). The keenest eye would detect the sense of hesitation furled up in the single downward line after "Part." Not a shaky line, but a curious one.

If we lived even further back in time, when parchment was a luxury and literacy was magic, you'd quickly realize you're reading a palimpsest. And that lurking behind the critical meta-analysis before you – in letters faded and forced out – was a letter of resignation. A suicide note. A quit.

But fortunately, thanks to electricity, the semi-conductor, and the backspace key, you are none the wiser. And the truth of this original post, this "final resolution," shall remain forever unresolved. You cannot seen the shiver of the cursive, nor the unnatural spaces between the diffident words. And moreover, instead of fear, you feel hope. Because part one promises a part two; and thus the careful reader will instead look forward to a final resolution, rather than the final resolution.

I need to stop posting sober. And exercising more.

Harvey

A solid green hardcover notebook

2013-12-11T11:37:00.000-05:00

Harvey Kornbluth was born on 14 January 1982, in Toronto, Ontario. This makes him Canadian, and though there is technically nothing wrong with this, he is compelled to apologise for the fact anyway. For the convenience of his parents and the medical staff involved with his birth, Harvey agreed to be born shortly before lunch, at 11:37am. On the day he was born, corn dogs were being served in the hospital cafeteria, but unfortunately they were out of mustard. Somehow, Harvey was forever affected by this error of omission.

His parents, Darryl and Celica Kornbluth, were both killed in a car accident while driving back from synagogue. Though Harvey would never know this, his parents were arguing about the merits of moisturized facial tissue, when, distracted, his father plunged the car into a river. As such, Harvey was raised by his homosexual uncle and his half-Asian lover. They taught him about musicals, Abba and oxycontin addiction.

Harvey was a peculiar child. He was prone to carrying around blank index cards and a copy of the Koran. His favourite cereal was Froot Loops which he ate with too much milk. He always carried an umbrella, even on the hottest summer days. He looked at the stars at night and considered their role in his life in a non-philosophical way. He asked a lot of pointed questions to his peers ("Would you murder a parent to save Santa, and which one?"), and wrote scathing letters to authority figures. In one such missive he wrote:

Mr. Coley,

If it is in fact the case that we are not meant to eat the Play-doh, then I beseech you to explain why it is so delicious. Your humble servant,

Harvey Kornbluth

His adolescence was marked by casual smoking, cold showers and suicide notes placed in public spaces. His threat to self-immolate — which was painted on to the rear of a portable classroom in purple tee-shirt puff paint — was unproven. Nevertheless, it prompted his teachers and caregivers to enroll Harvey in a school for the mentally deranged.

At the institute, Harvey consumed Greek yogurt and learned to ride the unicycle and wrote stream-of-consciousness poetry about the other inmates. In his time, he made only one friend: a tall and charismatic redhead named Miranda, who would shower with her clothes on, and pass Harvey notes at lunch, and scream herself to sleep every single night. Miranda was cured after she smashed a watermelon into pieces with a foam-bat (anger expulsion therapy), and she left the institute. Harvey was alone and depressed.

He worked through his troubled feelings in a solid green hardcover notebook and came to the inescapable conclusion that the world and all the things in it were projections of his mind. Content that this was the only piece of knowledge he could wholeheartedly deem true, Harvey felt a vague sense of responsibility for the figments of his imagination and thirsted no longer — or at least a little bit less — for his own self-initiated demise.

Satisfied with Harvey's new-found (albeit disturbingly flawed) belief in the value of living, the institute released him. It was spring and he was an adult. The first thing Harvey did was find a prostitute and pay her for sex. The second was to procure an umbrella.

Many years later he started this blog, and shares with you those those dark corners of his notebook: the musings of a solipsistic inmate.

Spam poetry

2013-11-20T11:37:00.000-05:00

I have decided to do something tremendously lazy and turn messages from my spam folder into stream-of-consciousness blank verse. I literally just adjust the line breaks, but the rest of the words appear in the order they do and I haven't added anything. Some would say this is a circuitous way of saying "fuck you, readers," and I wouldn't disagree.

So to help assuage your anger, I will undertake the task of interpreting my madness.

By Dick Boyce

outrageously! lying hostage inflammation
but whirlpool milligram and eloquently hostel,
scour the nuance stormy that
gumbo at paralegal the reject was
humanism a zone, nut harpoon mobilize or cashmere of was

luminary at thump and frankly maliciously vile
tripod atonement and palpably song,
an aviator sophomore of southwestward,
or continuity clasps the glitter of coals
O halo the plagiarism! Accepted.

thrown savings and loan!
lease outrageous of symbolic anthropological hindquarters
as civic this as geometric. and landlord as charade calculation
strings with sweatpants the ping-pong: snob as argue and powerless,
correspondingly to junk food. the gnawing.

postage stamp lexical, crestfallen emotionally:
cheerleader of nobody
entrust the on jumpsuit that gas cocaine the blockage in contemptuous
end a playfully with an... annihilate
xenophobia birthplace and that duchess in xylophone hoax

The subprime mortgage crisis of 2008 is fascinating for two diametrically opposed reasons. First, plainly speaking, it was unexpected. Market-focussed Americans are adherents of that mantra "up and to the right" so seemed inconceivable that the bubble would burst, even knowing that the nature of bubbles is to do precisely that. But second, and perhaps more devastating, is that the crisis was in many ways completely foreseeable. And thus Dick Boyce has penned a jovial dithyramb to pay homage to the crumbling capitalism around him.

The bold opening "outrageously!" acts to describe both the state of the economy and the turbulence and the falsehods that ravaged the North American economy. "Lying. Hostage. Inflammation." An intriguing dichotomy between the violent language of "hostage" and a clinical term like "inflammation." Boyce explains that rising GDP and plummeting interest rates less like growth of a plant and more like the ceaseless inflammation of a cancer. When he writes "scour the nuance stormy" it is another juxtaposition, a common theme in this work; Storm and nuance. Elegant hotel. The glitter of coals. The agony and the ecstasy of the American idiom.

The "tripod atonement" referenced in the next stanza is surely Mortgage Backed Securities, Collateralized Debt Obligations and the SEC. "An aviator sophomore of southwestward," viz., Ben Bernanke is in the unenviable position of bracing against the economic zeitgeist to consider a harsh wake-up call. Up and to the right no longer, but "southwestward" we go; down and to the left. To a financial crisis not seen since the Great Depression. The glitter of coals is the promise of a unblemished economy. But we fail and "halo the plagiarism."

"Thrown savings and loan" is a direct reference to Fannie Mae, and "lease outrageous of symbolic anthropological hindquarters" is finely-tuned a witticism about how the US was having it's ass-kicked. There is something so elegant about:

as civic this as geometric. and landlord as charade calculation
strings with sweatpants the ping-pong: snob as argue and powerless,

Where Boyce contrasts the polis, and the city state, the neighbourhood (what Hilary Clinton dubbed "a village") with "the landlord as charade." We are are all tenants of a tyrant; whether from without or within. Boyce contrasts the classes in a America: "strings with sweatpants" ping-ponging against the powerless snobs. Another breathtaking juxtaposition. Another failure of the American Dream.

Who is "crestfallen emotionally? cheerleader of nobody?" The nexus of Alan Greenspan and Ben Bernanke. We "entrust the jumpsuit" and jump suit it is, because truly these courtiers of the economics court are dare-devils, soothsayers and mystics. Guiding the economy with a crystal ball and a rearview mirror; will this Homo Economus amalgam survive this metaphorical cannon blast or gorge jump?

"And a playfully with an... annihilate"

Boyce is not so sure.

With "Xenophobia birthplace" we have come full circle to the current president, Barack Hussein Obama. Another soothsayer, another lying hostage inflammation. His use of the pun "xylophone hoax" is clever. A scale of lies and yet another sickening contrast that are we left to reflect upon. The keys aligned in a row, ever-shrinking like the remnants of a beautiful dream chromatically fading into the future.

A note on suicide

2013-11-11T11:37:00.000-05:00

To whom it may concern,

It will be no shock to those reading these words that I have a preoccupation with suicide. You might say "unhealthy" preoccupation, but that seems redundant; even mayonnaise is more healthful than the deliberate termination of one's own life. But I feel that I should affirm for the record, that despite the title of this weblog, I do not envision myself strategically degrading like the ever-scraped groove on a record, or a length of vermiculate nautical rope chafing against a rusted cleat, or a sad bug-chasing homosexual, or a monkey that can smoke 37 cigarettes at once.

For I fear the future more than I fear death. When I consider wrinkles sprawling across my skin, or my memories eroding like yellowing paper, I become conscious of my breath and I look at my hands and I plunge into a coffin-sized tank of anxiety. And then my hands fold into desperate fists, and a thought materializes in my brain: "you must escape."

But it won't be by drinking a thousand carefully-measured droplets of poison night-after-night, or by methodically dragging a cheese grater against my soul, or by standing unclothed in the daylight and letting my skin cook and eyes twist themselves shut under the oppressive sun. I will not simply hate, wait, and fulminate as the train clacks towards the rail's end.

I can't swim, so I will die in the ocean.

The ocean is another planet. Not just "more" than our terrestrial domain, but truly beyond it. It is filled with more life and wonder and complexity than the pathetic sliver of Earth on which slugs and birds and cigarette smoking monkeys play. I think it's fitting that I perish at the horizon of a new frontier. Should there be an afterlife (chortle), my ghost can haunt the dark and undulating expanse of the briny deep. After all, eternity will go by faster in new surroundings. Hell, I might even learn something.

To be exact: with a single cinderblock tied to my feet, I will struggle in the frigid waves as far from shore as I can get. This struggle will no doubt be my life's hardest. My thrashing arms and legs will burn and weaken against the seemingly thickening water. As the rope pinches my ankle, my lips will kiss the surface of the water from below and suck madly at the disappearing air. My lungs and body will fill with the ocean and I will fall. I will become the agent of my destruction. And then I will sleep.

And so it is you who must live out the slow motion of suicide. You, dear readers, will carry the weights as yet untied to the ankles of corpses loitering on the ocean floor, or other final destinations. You must plod through the molecular dance, and tell those who knew me about my demise and react sensibly to their crumbling faces. If you meet someone who claims to love me, remind them that just as one cannot hold a shadow —an image of a thing— that one cannot love a suicide either. Their lives are shadows too.

Calm down: I'm not done yet. I can wait a lifetime for that. But I feel compelled to declare that unlike the the tedious and plodding ascent of these words on your computer screen, my resignation from these posts will be sudden and decisive. Like two fingers pressing on a flush handle, or the photograph that makes you infamous, or the moment just after you plant an ill-advised kiss on her mouth; never to be the same, never to be undone.

Respectfully yours,

Harvey

Words I hate

2013-10-28T11:37:00.000-04:00

Why.

In the overflowing department store of human language, I imagine the Question words would be shelved alongside tools. Questions aren't merely ornate drapery like adjectives, or clunky dust-collecting detritus like nouns, or the pushy warehouse staff of verbs. They are rough and ready devices we use to scrape and screw and hammer at the world at large.

We might be tempted to compare "Where" to a map, but it's really just a long, stiff rod, used to point. "What" is more powerful. Like a flashlight, it illuminates so that we may understand those nouns and verbs better. Sometimes, like an X-ray, it penetrates the surface of objects in space, sometimes it acts like a magnifying glass, or a lens, but is is always a vision of our reality. "When" is of course a clock, or metronome, ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, and "How" is nothing more than reams of graph paper and a pen of bottomless ink: an ostensive system of symbolic language we use to diagram the "what" and the "when" and the "where" of the world.

And then there is "Why."

It's less a tool, than a tome-covered wall, a wing-back chair and a pipe reeking of tobacco. It's hunkering down with the a single thin leaf of "how" and trying to peel that page in two identically sized but thinner sheaths, and having succeeded, trying to divide them again. It is, in a sense, the conclusion that there are not enough books on the wall, and not enough hours in the wing-back chair and not enough tobacco nor pipes in the world to decide questions as resolutely solved.

While "what" may serve to illuminate the darkest room, and "where" might guide us to the place we never expected to find answers, and "when" might remind us of our place in the utter calamity of existence, "why" does quick and steady violence to what we think we know. It's more than a cascade of books' pages dividing in a reckless mitosis: it is an earthquake, destroying a mountain, in the depths of hell.

Like causation, free will, God, consciousness, and Harvey Kornbluth's sense of self worth, one has an urge to believe in "why" more than one can satisfy what it truly requires. Namely, an unblinking dissatisfaction with the way anything is. Imagine the arrogance to demand that we not only understand the present in toto, but the entirety of the past and the meaning of the future too. It is the question, "what came first" and thus shall never be answered; any more than one can address "what is what?" and "how does how?" and "when is when?" and when there is no more paper left to splice, Why will still hold aloft a scalpel and furrow its brow and cite its sources and sigh, bemused the the ground has not yet stopped shaking.

I often ruminate on why I write these words, but no more. Instead, I resolve to remember the angle of the sun or moon, the firmness of the chair upon which I sit, the temperature of the wind, and then use these words to assemble the what, the when, and the where to explain how -- whatever the how -- and leave the why untouched between the fibres of the versos and rectos of philosophy textbooks.

Words I hate

2013-10-23T11:37:00.001-04:00

Whilst.

Listen asshole, you aren't British and you never will be. Who are you trying to kid with that "whilst" business? What, suddenly you're continental and sophisticated because you added a hiss and a flick of the tongue to the end of an ordinary word? Bra-fucking-vo. You probably own a tweed blazer.

Did you grow up watching the BBC and pretending that Marmite doesn't taste like meningitis? Do you call aboriginals "niggers" and have a snaggle tooth? Is your skin translucent? Do you insist that their exist micro-regional variations in British accents, down to the street? Does your telephone have a shitty two-pulse ring? Do you claim that your ancestors "invented" a language that your citizenry is vehemently destroying on a daily basis? No?

In that case, when you see the words "chiefly British" in the dictionary, respect them — you fuckin' twat.

Four score times four and four score more

2013-10-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

At the end of these four paragraphs, I will have managed to publish four-hundred* pieces of "writing" to this website. I put scare quotes around 'writing' because this "achievement" kind of scares me. I put scare quotes around 'achievement' because I don't know how to use scare quotes.

I'm not one to celebrate milestones, but given this site's microscopic audience (even God skips it sometimes), it's not just weird that I've stacked up four-hundred posts: it's kind of demented. I'm simultaneously proud and horrified by his number. I'm sure the Germans have a word for this emotion, but I'm going to call it a queasy unease.

Especially since we all know that the best is not yet to come. We are, both of us, tucked into a rattling shopping cart as it races unguided downhill. When this blog comes to an end, it will be sudden, and violent, and knees will be scraped.

Thanks for reading though.

*Actually this is not entirely accurate but it's close enough.

Junk mail and nothingness

2013-09-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

I received this e-mail in my inbox the other day.

And by "other day" I mean in December of last year. Look, e-mail isn't my forté, OK? It reads:

This is how you get the universe from nothingness. Nothingness is the property of not being. If there were a never ending amount of things to not be, nothing would not be able to not be them all. This is because never ending never ends. So the universe would be nothing getting around to not doing of a never ending amount of things. It would get around to not doing them one at a time. Each frame of time in the universe another configuration of it slips off into the past and becomes nothing. This would mean that there is a never ending amount of time in the universe. The future would go on forever. Now think of an example of nothing getting around to not doing a thing: where events slip off into nothingness. Look close enough and you will see that perception does this. Our perception is like a hole that experiences go into. The past frames of time don't stack up on the present frame of time. The past frames of time have become nothingness. Being that our perception is more like a hole than a material, might it be that we live after we die.

I think what this zany spammer is trying to say is that human beings are like walking black holes, swallowing a lifetime of sense data, converting it into memories and then obliterating it when we die. There is a strange irony to this version of our consciousness -- rather than being a thing in the universe -- it's a vacuum into which the things of the universe are made into nothing. Existentialism isn't being and nothingness, it is humans themselves: beings of nothingness.

I guess this is why it is so important to write things down.

And stranger still consider: our scribbles might be read by subsequent generations, and our thoughts could be kicked along through time like a pebble that keeps catching your foot. But of course one day when the very last human being dies, every human thought will die, and the transmogrification of our ideas up until that point will finally become nothing. History will be nothing. What it means to be human will be nothing. Everything will be nothing.

This last man (I say 'man' because I'm sexist) is the caretaker of an endless game of Chinese whispers, holding a paltry collection of human knowledge that has ricocheted through the ages like a silver pinball, ending up dented and faded in the recesses of his brain. Is that what it means to be human? To hold your shred of the everything, before your failure to exist turns it into nothing?

I need a better spam filter.

Recipe for disaster

2013-08-21T11:37:00.000-04:00

Ingredients:

1 ex-girlfriend
1.5 bottles of Jameson
2.5 hour long discussion about her most recent trip to Venice, and her period of "self-discovery" whatever that means
1 dash nostalgia
resentment (to taste)

Method:

Combine ingredients vigorously in an enclosed space.
Increase temperature until mixture begins to thicken.
Lower temperature and the mix will begin to separate on its own.
Once complete, throw the entire thing out. It's over for fuck's sake.

Yield: 0

Fuck the 90s

2013-08-06T11:37:00.000-04:00

I'm not adept with women. My hamartia is not that I'm brusque, awkward or unfunny. I'm smoove as fuck, y'all. But I do have a weakness for batting eyelashes on brunettes with the gentlest of waves in their hair, especially when they flash Pan-Am smiles and find everything I say hilarious, and indeed down another cocktail and talk with me until the bar closes and put then they put their hand on my kneecap and follow me home. That's like, totally my type.

But guys, she was born in the '90s.

I don't know what to make of this. When it comes right down to it, I can't in good conscience fuck someone who I know was struggling with cursive writing when I was breathing in Must-See TV and wearing No Fear shirts. Can I?

Chris Isaak is as relevant to her as Frankie Goes To Hollywood is to me (i.e., not very) and Nickelodeon is something completely different for her. I'm a YCDTOTV and she's an All That. She also uses words like "cray" and "hella" whereas I can't even handle the use of "impact" as a verb.

In a town as small as this, it's likely I will see this girl again, and I will have to ask myself: does it matter that she doesn't know who Bronson Pinchot is? I haven't even mentioned pogs.

She's hella cute though. This is so confusing.

A decree

2013-07-12T11:37:00.000-04:00

I found this scrawled in my notebook:

I hereby Decree, that, in an Effort to drastically improve the Fruits of my creative Endeavours, I shall increase my output, to a degree conducive to Improvement in the Arts, and shall not cease until such Improvement is Realised proper.

For some reason this resolution is signed "the management" and is dated 12 July 1708. Even in the 18th century, I was beating myself up about not writing enough. Sheesh.

Reasons for committing suicide

2013-06-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

Oh, hi. You're still here? I could have sworn you had already left. Serves me right for not delivering these to you sooner. Pay attention; these are some more-than-convincing reasons to get your butt in gear:

Got pwned by a n00b
Lost a sizable portion of your tortilla chip in the communal guacamole and people noticed
Hummed Carly Rae Jeppsen, tapped foot
Ordered and enjoyed the bland meal on an airplane
Kicked ass but forgot to take names
Watched trilogy in the wrong order
You don't understand how life insurance works
First contestant eliminated
Purchased Alien Ant Farm CD
You're adopted
Married the least interesting of a pair of identical twins

Now get outta here you crazy schlub.

An optical illusion

2013-05-31T11:37:00.000-04:00

As Lydia tediously unwraps the packaging of the day's events, Harvey listens with the intensity befitting the utterly smitten: with open, searching eyes and gentle nods of reassurance.

"Anyway, I'm rambling on," she says. "How was your day?"

Harvey smiles a tight, forced smile.

"Just fine."

His lips tense, almost buckling from the deluge of unfiltered emotion sloshing inside his head. Words press against the back of his clenched teeth like prisoners in a burning prison. Words like, "I'm just fine, except for the stultifying feeling of loneliness I felt at 3:18pm this afternoon. It felt like between me and the distance of furthest star space — the furthest speck in space — there was no one I can count on. I told you this, and when you texted me back:

Maybe you need some new friends

Instead of:

You're not alone

Or:

Don't worry

Or:

You have me

My spirit slackened and I begged to see you tonight and you said

Sure thing

And here we are, in deep conversation about your day, and interdepartmental elementary school politics, and not once have you inquired why or how I suddenly feel like the only beating heart from here to UDFj-39546284, and I finally understand, in the way that an optical illusion tumbles in your mind until the moment you understand it, that I am alone. And that you an are an optical illusion too."

But the words never leave Harvey's lips. And he forces his lips to relax.

Outmoded measurement

2013-05-13T11:37:00.000-04:00

Jerry Seinfeld is absolutely right to mock our continued use of "horsepower" to measure modern machines. We should at least switch to elephants or something. Or politicians. They're pretty powerful if you think about it. The amount of power it takes to build one dam could be measured in congressmen. Who wouldn't want to drive a 220 senator-powered motorcycle?

The fractional use of horsepower is also ridiculous. Half a horsepower is, properly speaking, half a horse's power, which is zero. A horse torso moves no carts. In cases such as these we should use mice or ferrets or something.

A country of broken necks

2013-05-07T11:37:00.000-04:00

Spines are shattered; everyone's neckless
Rubbernecks never run for office
Let's just quit this rat race, looks like
God should flatly concede all trace–

Danglin' floppin', cubicles-airplanes
Chemicals taint and paint the insane
Pop the suicide champagne, looks like
Broken necks have marred our campaigns

Let's talk longings primitive instinct
Elements meet forever they're linked
Life's just endless rethink, looks like
Your march rages onward hoodwinked

Two cars meet in promenade conflict
Butterfly floats and stings to afflict
Us like meaning addicts, looks like
Our scribe deems us worthy handpicked

See the sea? It's literal magic
Bitterness corks longings pelagic
Yes, doctor it's tragic, looks like
Our neck's wring is automatic

Real letters from real geeks

2013-05-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

Dear reader,

An excellent thank you letter must be gracious, kind and forthright. You, dear reader, will refer to the reader by their first name, because that will allow an air of ease and levity. It is not a formal letter, but rather one to make the reader understand that (and how) you have been touched by his or her gesture. It matters not if your feelings of gratitude are not sincere; you words shall indicate nothing less than that you were utterly humbled by the reader's magnanimity, and that your mere letter of thanks could never suffice to propitiate their generosity.

A thank you note is not a place to criticize a gift. You must never mention if a gift is unfit for your consumption or is not of your taste. Even if it is something you would never ever use, you must convey in words how you could never live without having received this gift, and that your erstwhile life was nothing but a shadow -- a falsehood dreamscape, where your disjoint body and mind have synthesized only upon receipt of said gift, action or token of generosity upon which you are now conveying thanks.

A letter like this is not a platform on which you may expound upon your political and religious beliefs, or otherwise offensive or distasteful views. Be careful to avoid profanity and if you must, please do not write them in majuscule letters, for that is utterly charmless.

Do not use racist language.

It is not appropriate to post-date your thank you note (because this makes no sense) nor should you pen this missive under the influence of drugs, alcohol or God. Be sure to close with a warm and compelling salutation.

Thanks for the memories, fuckers,

Harvey

Memoirs of the unemployed

2013-04-17T11:37:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, as a condition of receiving Employment Insurance (dole, pogey, etc.,), I had to enroll in a government sponsored program called the Job Hunting Club. Calling it a club was probably a marketing move to give it a sense of cachet, like we were clinking gimlets and black people weren't allowed in, but it was far from that. We sat in a small classroom on the 9th floor of an office building, watched a lot of dated videos on how to make resumes and learned how to apply to jobs without sounding like mongoloids. Because I had a university degree and was 100% literate, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Or rather the opposite: the sole thumb devoid of hammer marks and bruises.

I exaggerate; most of the people in the course were just normal folks who got laid off. One of them in particular caught my eye. I took some notes on him in class:

Toronto Job Hunting Club

It's the island of misfit toys. There's the guy who pronounces his Rs like Ls; the obligatory Little Person, eastern Europeans, some other coloureds, and me.

We start with an ice breaker that proves surprisingly effective. Sample queries: find someone with your same sign, find someone who likes pasta, find someone who's seen The Sound Of Music. Quickly, we mill about to collect this useless data. But it works – the ice is broken.

We spend the morning discussing "skills," and post-job-loss-feelings. Relief, shock and frustration are mentioned. Myself, I offer "rage" and "homicide" but am quickly rebuffed.

* * *

Evan's presentation today is short and sweet and weird. He wrote a book on consumer advocacy? Didn't I just see this guy trolling for casual sex in the computer lab?

* * *

Let's get back to Evan. What a guy. He has a face that's swollen like a drunk's and a mop of greying unkempt hair. His small, dark eyes are hidden behind huge, square glasses better befitting an old lady. He talks like an old townie. And I believe most of what he says is completely untrue.

He has apparently owned a "legal company," designed a website and written a book. Yet this guy never takes off his coat the entire time he's in class. He looks like Barney Martin on heroin.

He seems to hate working. One of my first conversations with him goes like this:

Evan: Pretty boring, huh? (In reference to everything being discussed.)

Harvey: (Trying to seem positive) It's not so bad. Kind of useful.

Evan: I'm only here because my mother wanted me out of the house.

Harvey: Oh.

* * *

He sees me pull my BlackBerry out and he comments that "it would probably work better if it was made in a Canadian union shop." It's not like I am having problems with it, but I can tell he hates the idea of offshoring. Evan is not shy with his redneck-level politics. I mention, politely, that the phone would probably cost $2000 if built with union labour. He doesn't like this.

I'm not sure what this guy's deal is. He is bitter that more jobs don't offer full training. "They expect you to know everything when you walk through the door." In this room full of over-educated immigrants, his attitude is a sharp contrast.

His arms are folded, and his gaze is far from empty. It's full of ire and bitter disappointment from a sense of entitlement and unfulfillment.

I'm being hard on him, and to be honest I don't know why. It's not that he's lazy. Maybe he's not. But he seems defeated. And petulant.

I'm lucky enough to be put in a group with Evan. We have to come up with things to research before interviews. He insists we write "is this company a scam?" When we don't, he skulks off to look up free sex in the computer lab. It's clear he's showed up to a few scams in his life. Maybe he thinks his whole life is over?

* * *

Evan has this strange move where he rubs his ring finger with the opposite hand like he's trying to warm it up or jam it back into his hand.

* * *

We just watched his videotaped interview. It isn't just bad. It is textbook bad. I'm starting to get the impression he has been hired by the career centre. A stooge. A real life "Donny Don't." The first words out of his mouth during the video interview are, "I need a job."

I wonder about Evan, and even worry about him a bit. The guy was clearly a nutter – he was a 50-year-old man that lived with his mother, surfed porn at a government job searching program and had delusions of grandeur – but I can't help but think: there, but for the grace of God, go I. Could the world become so topsy-turvy? Maybe one day I will sit in a room with a winter coat on, surrounded by younger and more enthusiastic voices, as I rage silently: "I could have been something. But the world failed me."

It's not right to mandate experience, but I do feel there are certain things one should do before they can consider themselves informed citizens. One is to travel to a non-English speaking country. Another is to fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back. Another is to confront the downtrodden and listen to their stories. I am certainly not the same after meeting Evan.

Wild speculation

2013-04-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

On polar bears:

God: Tracy, could you come over here for a moment?
God's P.A. Tracy: Yes, sir. What is it?
God: What's the cutest animal we have designed?
Tracy: I think that would be the white bear with the black nose.
God: Right. We need to move it far away from the humans.
Tracy: Why?
God: Because they will be too distracted by its cuteness.
Tracy: (writing in her pad) OK, white bears to ice caps. What about puppies should we move those too?
God: No. That's different.

Water's a waste

2013-03-27T11:37:00.000-04:00

Water isn't great. I mean, it's everything not to like about liquid. When people tell me how awesome drinks like whiskey and Diet Pepsi are made, they usually start with water and add a fuck tonne of yummy ingredients to it.

It's not unreasonable therefore to assume then that water sucks. You don't see people taking Diet Pepsi and adding a shit load of ingredients to that do you? (I mean, maybe some assholes do but that's fucking heresy if you ask me.) Diet Pepsi is fine the way it is. But water? Water needs some serious work.

Humans are so desperate to turn water into something it's not. We purify it, desalinize it, add sugar, take out minerals and other minerals, add colour, add the fermented byproduct of various decaying grains and/or fruits/vegetables, we even add bubbles for fuck's sake.

The only thing it's good for is bathing and water slides. Pass me a scotch.

Who goes there?

2013-03-21T11:37:00.000-04:00

I don't tell people about this site, yet somehow people find it in droves. They also tend to leave it in droves, but I'm still surprised that year over year, more people visit.

And what is it that they expect to find? Popular searches include:

euphemisms for vomiting
"have you ever kissed a girl"
ass licking slow motion
1 sentence cause of galactosemia
egg mcmuffin fresh cracked eggs
poem using apostrophe which should be about your daily activities (10 lines at least)

As I plug away at this project, it occurs to me that I'm certainly not meeting the expectations of my non-existent readership. And I should be indifferent, but I'm not. To the sad fucks looking for ass licking in slow motion, I truly apologize. My ramblings aren't going to get you off, and part of me feels like I've let you down. You dead-ended on a jet black page about Toucans and self-loathing, dick in hand. Neither of us wanted this.

When web was young I used to devour blogs. Now, like everyone else, I merely snack; pecking away at an endless buffet of content.

I wonder then: what will happening to this endless stream of text inching skyward? It's not that I demand readers (I really don't) but I don't want to be a forgotten, flung open cupboard door in the frantic kitchen of the Internet. I sincerely hope that one day I can satisfy the needs of some lonesome surfer on the other side of a search engine. That someone searching for "reasons to commit suicide," will finally have found his home.

Break up template

2013-03-13T11:37:00.000-04:00

Dear _______,

I'm sorry. I know this might come as a (shock/surprise/relief) to you, but I don't think we should (see/fuck/date) each other (for a while/anymore/until these meds start working).

The thing is I (like/love/mostly love) you, I really do, but I just don't feel like we have a (real connection/fighting chance in this crazy world). I have lots going on, what with the (economy/hockey lockout/turbulent job market/upcoming comic-con) so I think it might be best if we (took it easy for a while/called it quits/never spoke to each other ever again).

I definitely have some issues to hash out with my (therapist/shaman/mother/ex-girlfriend/personal trainer), so I really think this the right move for both of us. Plus, you've just fucked too many guys.

Also, I'm sorry about (your couch/christmas dinner). I will make it up to you.

I hope we can still be (fuck buddies/pen pals/friends on Facebook).

Harvey

Forwards and backwards

2013-03-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

In my dream last night
Well, I was drunk and you sent a note
Much like this one
Where the message works both backwards and forwards
Are you familiar with this?
This is totally strange.

This is totally strange.
Are you familiar with this?
Where the message works both backwards and forwards

Much like this one

Well, I was drunk and you sent a note

In my dream last night.

Leap years

2013-02-28T11:37:00.000-05:00

...are stupid. And I'm glad we don't have one this year. You can't just add a day to a year. If our calendar is inefficient we should suffer the consequences. And if that means in five hundred years Christmas will be in July, well who gives a rusty fuck?

Let's roll the dice from now on.

The raft

2013-02-21T01:23:00.001-05:00

Life's not an ocean, it's a raft. The ocean is the universe; existence at large. But that fragile, malleable, flimsy tarpaulin of a vessel we cling to desperately in the choppy waves is Life. And though it is tempting to puncture a hole through it and escape into the ocean's dark depths, most of us succumb instead to starvation and the sun, never knowing even the tiniest expanse of the wide undulating sea.

(The sun is a metaphor for time.)

Words I hate

2013-02-13T11:37:00.000-05:00

Cotillion.

Sure, I'm no connoisseur of elegance in the form of dresses, long white gloves, the American south, young women, and curtsying. In fact, I would be lying if I said I've never entertained a drowsy afternoon fantasy of driving a Volkswagen Jetta on to ballroom floor of a debutante ball, whipping a Koran at some old lady's head, and then lighting myself on fire.

But all the same this word's just gross. Every time I hear it, I can feel the tip of a quill being lifted from dusty parchment. Knowing that its origin is French doesn't help any.