Share and Share Alike

Written yesterday while watching Peter White's hair thin on a basketball court:

A small boy gave me a truck today.
As well as a bus.
Not full-sized vehicles, mind you.
These were just toys, which is no less considerate, I suppose.
When children give me things, I'm not sure what to do with them.
I understand I'm just supposed to accept the gesture.
I may not want the empty Q-tip box, but I'll take it for the sake of the child.
I've figured that much out.
Couple of high school girls are coming my way.
Play it cool, Paul.
Something I never learned while in high school.
Anyway, it's after the fact that confuses me.
Do I give it back to him as a sign of good faith?
"I know that you want the truck and bus more than me.
Besides, socially, I can't play with this stuff in public.
You keep them."
I could pass them on to someone else.
Ideally, the mother.
"You should be dealing with these instead of me."
Today, I just ended up holding the die-casts longer than I wanted to.
Kind of like after you've finished the bacon-wrapped scallop at the fancy dress party.
The guy with the tray is gone, and you're left holding the toothpick.
Wondering to yourself, "Now where am I going to lay this down?"
You end up holding it for several minutes, avoiding conversation, until you ultimately drop it inside a vase.
At least, that's what I would do.
21 months.
That's how old the little fella was.
I asked the mother.
Then I discussed the Terrible Twos and how to age young children
(turns out you use the same method as you would to age trees).
It felt meaningful.
Asking a stranger a question to find myself genuinely invested in the answer.
Listening, these days, seems unheard of (pun intended).
Then the mother had a window tumble open and hit her on the back of her head.
I didn't witness this.
Happened in the bathroom. The girls'.
Not my place.
This summer has had too many wasps.
With bees, at least you know where you stand.
Wasps dangle too-close when all you want to do is use your barbecue.
It's equivelant to a bully not letting you pass by in a hallway.
After the injury, I had to leave the coffee shop for a number of reasons.
One: Whenever someone is being treated for injury, I instantly feel in the way.
Someone's getting ice, another is getting a cloth.
I just feel as though I'd help everyone by leaving immediately.
Two: I felt uncomfortable because
a) I knew the window hit her on the noggin while she was on the toilet, and so, I began imagining her on the toilet and couldn't unimagine it.
b) (and I mention this gingerally) I could see up her skirt while she recuperated.
I'm not some sort of freak (I might be).
She was on a raised platform relative to me.
If I turned in her direction, that's what I saw.
So I had to leave.
Peter White interjected at this point of the story to ask what that was like (pervert).
I answered, "Shadowy. Always too shadowy."
But that was a joke.
Fact was, after speaking to her I liked her just a little bit.
Consequently, I didn't want to look up her skirt.
It felt great.
This one has a humane ending. 

Helen Hath No Fury

I hate the way I hate kids.
It is true.
It's different when they're yours.
The news babies in my life have this profound ability to make me love them.
I hate that, too.
If I feel this way about the babies who are important to me, then I should support all of these delusional 'parent' fucks who think that their children are amazing.
And that can't be right.
Yet it's undeniable.
I went from refusing to pick up anyone's child-
"Hold her? Does she always land on her feet?
No? I'll pass, then."
To finding myself unable to put them down.
It's okay, really.
I'm okay with loving babies.
Their useless little brains and bodies.
Their insistence on making noise when there really isn't any need for a fuss.
If I only love those close to me then I resemble so many people I can't stand.
If I love all children then I'm unbalanced and weird.
Never mind the fact that I'm emotionally incapable of loving all children, I'd rather that weren't the case either way.
Y'know who loves children indiscriminately?
Spinsters (some of you thought I was going to say 'pedophiles').
Weird, desperate women who knit selflessly and insist on talking about it.
Not my scene.
I only mention all of this because I'm resisting a seething hatred for the children in this coffee shop.
But it's not them.
It's never them.
Nanny is supposed to stoop once in a while, and say shit like:
"You're being loud and there are other ears besides yours.
Play quiet, okay dumplings?"
Nanny's just sitting there, though.
Acting as though they're not making a sound (which is what's truly infuriating).
Children are closer to dogs than people; you don't befriend, you break. 
Anyway, whatever.
Complaining about kids is thoroughly discussed in this blog.
I'll tell you what isn't, though:
Helen Hunt's current whereabouts.
Not just some forgettable sitcom wench, she was legit in As Good As It Gets.
Twister was a two-hour Dodge Ram commercial, but at least a lot of people watched it.
Where did you go, Helen?
Come back to us.
Classic beauty beats some toe-thumbs archetype any day.

Do you suck on those talons, Megan?
Ugh.
She's no hotter than most ungulates.
Anyone looks hot after four hours of primping and one hour of airbrushing.
True beauty is throwing on a sundress with very little makeup and carrying that throughout the entire barbecue.
Helen could do that.
Megan would probably just regurgitate the ribs.
Jamming her disfigured thumbs down her lacquered esophagus-
Alright, I'm making myself queasy, so I'm going to go. 
Just remember that you look great.
Even if you're hideous. 

Bluff, Bluff, Pass

Urinate on your partner.
It's Friday.

Speaking of pissing for more than one reason, Lance Armstrong failed a bunch of drug tests.
Failing a drug test is sort of like failing a regular test.
However, instead of being threatened to be held back only to eventually pass and move onto a grade you're not ready for, when you fail a drug test, the repercussions are far worse:
You lose endorsements.
And when the only things you have going for you are your endorsements and cancer, you don't want to fail that drug test.
If there's one thing (and there aren't many) that Americans like more than their star athletes, it's discovering that those athletes are frauds.
Nothing quite beats taking the ol' bucksaw to a pedestal.
I'm not sure why it is that we all love to see successes become failures.
Humans, I assume, won't live for a particularly long time.
In terms of the fauna timeline.
We can distract ourselves with all of the rubber bracelets we want.
Fact is, we're doomed.
We just can't share.
Other animals can all share because they don't have the mental capacity to hate.
What a luxury that must be.
Humans can't share.
We can't share space. We can't share food. We can't share wealth.
We can't share sexual partners.
We're doomed.
In place of sharing, all that remains is to take.
I've always said (in my head) that racists are just people who were never taught to share.
It's just climate.
Like, the squinty eyes and the dark skin?
It's an animal's way of evolving to a climate.
That's all race really is.
Unfortunately, racists can't get that, which is what makes them racists.
Besides, arid heat may be the reason the middle eastern crowd looks as they do.
But that doesn't explain the funny way they talk.
You've got me there.
What was I talking about?
Right.
Doomed species.
That's us.
And we're doomed because I was relieved to see that Lance Armstrong is being stripped of all of his stuff.
They found a bong in Phelps' sock drawer?
Great.
They have his mother weeping from the shame on CNN?
Perfect.
Let's check that out.
It's an ugly thing, y'know?
Being in the middle.
Those above seem so much higher.
Those below just seem frightening and dirty.
I've heard that Lance has been hounded for years.
(America loves to hunt their witches, too).
Who can say?
All I know is this:
Those rubber bracelets are really annoying.
If we give Lance the benefit of the doubt.
If we maintain that Lance didn't inhale, or he has glaucoma, or whatever.
The fact still remains:
He started the bracelet thing.
Now people support everything through items rather than words or...upheaval.
Jesus.
Blondes.
Anarchists.
Everyone.
They all have their own bracelet.
What would your bracelet be for?
Who do you stand for in the laziest way possible?
Mine is a bracelet that supports bracelets
(I've made this exact same joke in another post about ribbons).
It might not be the same joke.
I'm too uninterested to re-read the post right now.

Anyway.
Get out there and enjoy your weekend.
But play it clean, okay?

Real Childish

It must be tough to be a pedophile.
Like, if you enjoy ejaculating onto...car hoods.
That's fucked up, sure.
However, so long as you have a garage and a consenting studebaker, no one will know about it.
Pedophilia is such a give-away.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and someone catches me-
I have to interrupt myself for a second.
Sometimes I really wonder about the state of my brain.
It's so common for me to wonder, "This can't be just me, can it?"
The loud-spoken woman at the table behind me has been describing the itinerary of some wedding.
How each person did on the speech.
Lemon cake (three-layer) with pickles for dessert.
This was at six and she was exhausted.
They wanted to play cards, and Fern didn't take off her jewelry the entire time.
She has these earrings that just go with everything.
They had this unbelievable house. You could see Ohio, but we didn't go there.
I'm eavesdropping and typing this as she says it
(I could be a stenographer, maybe).
Now, I'm listening to her yammer on about this.
And the more she talks, the more I want to throw up all over myself.
I don't feel nauseated, you understand, I just feel like that's the most appropriate reaction.
That's just me, right?
Fuck this woman.
That's the other thing I think, and I guess that's bizzare, too.
It's hard to know that this woman is probably a grandmother, and a human who means well.
And yet, despite that, fuck her.
Because this is a small space and she's saying this to everyone, rather than just her bored friend. 
And I believe it's on purpose.
My new-found, old news idol George Meyer said that comedy writers need to experience reality.
And I understand that Betty's story about absolutely nothing is reality.
I just can't do it.
This is why I always listen to music in public. 
Anyway.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and press my thigh against the passenger door, no one will notice or care.
However, if I spend an entire day perched against the chainlink fence perimitered around the ballfield during a little league tournament.
...
No matter how fucked up a pedophile is (and, let's face it, we've all watched SVU), you can't help your sexual preferences.
It's a tricky predicament.
Pedophilia.
Pedophilia is a tricky predicament.
Oh my fuck, she's talking about turning soup into a casserole now.
People do fucked up things behind closed doors.
Latex this and heated lightbulbs that.
Yet, all of this is, relatively speaking, acceptable.
But, if you're less into women and more into little women...
I'm not sympathizing with pedophiles in this post.
"Is Paul just working his way to this slowly?
Just whose side is he on, here?"
I'm not sympathizing with the pedophiles.
But I am certainly empathizing with them.
At least for the sake of today's conversation. 
Don't take candy from strangers, guys.

I'd intended to post a clip of To Catch A Predator, but it was too depressing.
So, instead I'm providing a clip of Jim Hensen's 1986 fantasy classic, Labyrinth. 
http://youtu.be/ViftZTfRSt8

Submitted For Your Perusal

Hatching my most recent get-rich-quick scheme, I've decided to submit posts to publications.
In the hopes that they may be selected.
Resulting in my getting money, or, at the very least, legitimacy.
Yet, like every endeavour up to now, I'd rather that someone else do it for me.
Is there a favourite post of yours?
If there's one that sticks out for you, please point it out to me.
All of you are welcome to comment, and I would urge you to do so.
Particularly if you're reading this and you're Stuart McClean.
If you're out there, Stu, your input could help a lot.

Strap Yourself In

Don't have children; have affairs. 

It’s not the weekend anymore.

It was the weekend recently, and we’re all cognizant of that.

I’d prefer you not fret, though.

It will be the weekend again.

Do you practice any sort of escapist tactics while at work?

Like, do you try to trance yourself into believing that you’re actually in a jacuzzi?

Alright, that’s impossible.

I’m all for mentally projecting your psyche (especially [exclusively] at work).

But I have to curb my own philosophies here because no one can project themselves into a hot tub.

None of us have the mental wherewithal for that.

I feel as though someone or something is to blame for that.

Perhaps if we all threw our phones into the ocean…

It’s not true what that dead guy said.

There isn’t an app for that.

There are no apps for the things that are most important (foreplay).

Anyway, what was I talking about?

Myself, surely.

No matter how veiled, let’s not tiptoe the reason we’re all here:

We’re more interested in me than we should be.

Speaking of me, I bought a belt recently.

I had to retire my former belt because I stepped on it the exact wrong way.

And, poor at extrapolation, I assumed that all belts that looked like my old belt would behave like my old belt.

Looks can be deceiving.

I went into my favourite transitioning-to-adulthood clothing store, RW & Co.

I pick up this belt that has a metal flap sort of thing on it.

At a glance it looks like an airplane seat belt that isn’t thick enough.

And, like an airplane seat belt, I could have used a demonstration on how to use it.

I thought you had to lift the thingy and then clasp it down after passing the belt through (like the old belt, and surely all other belts).

This belt didn’t work that way, but I was too inept to realize that.

I’m turning it in my hands, pinching this, pulling that.

Like a monkey. Like a real monkey.

I’m doing this long enough to know that employees must be watching me by now.

Sure enough, I look up and two women are observing me rather frankly.

While I’m trying to coconut my way into this thing.

One of them begins to approach and I stop her, saying:

“No no, if I can’t figure out how to use it, I don’t deserve to have it.

Eventually, she explained the process to me.

Humbled and sweaty, I tried the belt on with a new, brash confidence.

Then I couldn’t get it off.

The clasp thingy had gotten stuck, and I couldn’t unstick it.

I’m pinching this, I’m pulling that.

Nothing is  budging.

And I’m thinking to myself, “I’m going to have to hold my waist up to the counter and have her scan this while it’s on me, and then walk out acting dignified.”

I fiddle with it long enough to know that the employees must be watching me again.

Sure enough, when I look up that's just what they're doing.

And they look more concerned this time.

I overhear one of them whisper to the other, “Do we have scissors?”

This is why I haven’t had sex with more women.

That exact question explains everything.

So, the nice lady comes back over.

Things are about to get airport security search unless I can bust myself out of this thing.

She hesitantly does a clasp grasp and gives it a little shake.

It’s just tough to figure out the next move, socially.

The three of us as are in this now.

“He can’t get out of this belt alone, but it's too close to his dick for us to help him.

What do we do?”

I said that I would have gotten my mom to come in and help, but she wasn’t in the mall.

Which I thought was a little funny, but they didn’t laugh.

It wasn’t until later that I surmised they weren’t laughing because they thought I was serious.

“Oh, usually his mom is with him to help. That explains it.”

I had to use my house key to eventually pry myself out of it.

Then I forgot my headphones on top of the clothing rack, knocked over my coffee with my backpack while turning to retrieve them, and then I promised the women I would never return to their store.

Then I bought the belt.

Because I could use the challenge in my life, and it cost eight dollars.

Good luck with your own struggles today.

Try not to over-exert yourself.

Home is Where the Light Is

I'm in a coffee shop right now because, really, where else am I going to be?
I watched a cute film last night.
It was called Friends With Kids.
I give it three and a half Paul Warfords.
Out of a possible five Paul Warfords.
Or The Car Load, as I call it sometimes.
It would have gotten four Paul Warfords because the movie was really witty.
That stopped being the case, however, in the last two to four minutes.
Which are, some would say, the most crucial minutes.
Alas, three and a half.
What films get The Car Load, you ask (because I'm saying that you do)?
I can't really think of any. 
I could tell you a Car Load for food, maybe.
...
...
No I can't.
Picking favourites can be tricky.
Oh shit. I'm beginning to hate this post.
Rich people have such large houses.
I'm not talking about your suicidal dentist down the street.
There are wealthy people in any neighborhood (except ghettos and everywhere I've ever lived).
But I'm talking about the rich people who are wealthy enough to hide the fact that they're rich.
Which is, I assume, very difficult to do.
But then, anything is possible with a budget.
These people live in the cul de sacs you hear of, but could never locate.
These dollar havens always have telltale names.
Usually the word 'Court' is in there somewhere.
Or, continuing the regal theme, 'King Something'.
Other popular words might be, 'View'.
'Breeze'.
'Harbour'.
'Country'.
'Club'.
Such regions have houses that look like one house was glued to another.
Palaces.
And as I pass these places (after rummaging through their garbage), I feel compelled to knock on their door, and just say:
"What is it that you do?
What do you own?
Who do you own?"
I'd love to try that just once in my lifetime.
*knock knock* (this is stage direction)
"Speak, peasant!"
"Yeah, hi. Sorry to bother you or whatever.
I'm just wondering how you came to buy this place?"
"I killed everyone I know for the insurance money."
What would you do with your own lighthouse?
I don't have a lighthouse, but this guy does.
Simply because he's the best at throwing an oversized toothpick on his continent.
If I had a lighthouse, I'd shine it into my neighbor's eyeballs.
Just to lord it over them.
"Bright light earlier this morning?
You think that was me?
...
Oh, ooooh. Yeah, that was me.
Just thought you'd like some help guiding your car into your driveway."
Alright, this has gone on for long enough.
Have a good day, alright?
Wherever you happen to hang your hat. 

Hard to Swallow

I almost vomited today while chewing prosciutto.
Like a pregnant woman.
Though I've eaten it before, and I think it's delicious, this morning it tasted like...meat goo.
Scrambling to the bathroom in disbelief, I felt sympathy for every vegetarian who has every lived.
We all make mistakes, I guess.

I puke all of the time.
It's not an eating disorder thing - if anything, I'm popular enough as it is.
No, I vomit all of the time because people with weak bodies have weak stomachs.
Also like a pregnant woman.
Or a newborn.
Help me figure this out:
The only thing a baby consumes, besides the wayward rattle bead, is milk.
Either the version that comes from mothers, or the version that comes from tins.
Whenever I see babies being fed, they tend to yak up whatever dairy they swallowed minutes before.
Which begs the question: Why must babies be so stupid?
I know that they digest most of it, but I do think it's weird that they have one staple and they have trouble keeping that down.
One day we'll evolve so that we all survive on pellets.
Babies. Old people.
The fortunate who are in between.
Everyone.
I know that purists will insist that it's going to be pills.
But some people are really awful at swallowing pills.
As a consequence, when we switch to the mighty all-in-one-meal capsule, these humans will die out. 
Which would be fine with me, but I think the better solution, from a sanitary standpoint (dead bodies require maintenance) are pellets.
Then, we too shall be as happy as the petting zoo goat.
Who will tell you that pellets beat eating a can any day.

In true me fashion, I went on a hiatus from this blog in order to write a book.
Only to write nothing.
Aside from the occasional swear on the occasional bathroom stall.
...
You'd think that the sort of guy who would write vile language on a bathroom stall would also be the sort of guy unlikely to have a pen on him.
Then again, these delinquents are probably more organized than I am.
"Light vandalism today. Think I'll take...the blue Sharpie.
I can draw some dicks on stuff with the blue for sure."
Right!
That's what I was getting at, sort of.
Unorganized by nature, I claimed I'd start a book and then I didn't.
Now that I'm back, I've also started the book.
Which I had not intended to mention today (or ever).
But, my blog only thrives on honesty.
And honesty, in this case, is admitting that I've started a project I'll likely never finish.
It's about me.
Solely because I haven't had enough experiences to write about anything besides myself.
I guess, should it ever exist, it'll be toted as a memoir.
Or whatever you call a memoir that is produced by someone who can't remember anything.
Unmemoir?
Non-Memoir?
Can't Rememoir?
Oh, I like that one.
Anyway, I'll never upload any portions of it to this blog because, if I play my cards right, I have already done so.

I like reading Klosterman.
Only Klosterman and Eggers make me feel as though I could write a book
(one that would likely smack of Klosterman and Eggers).
Neither, technically, write memoirs.
One writes pop culture essays.
The other writes Heartbreaking Work(s) of Staggering Genius. 

A celebrity cleans for spring.
They gather up all of their wardrobe that they're tired of.
Box it and tape it and label it (blue Sharpie):
FOR THE PEASANTS
Then they place these items on the side of the road just before you walk by.
Whose wardrobe would you like to discover and claim as your own?

Under Your Hat

I think I've figured out why the pope wears such massive chapeaus.
It's under these that he hides all of Christianity's lies.
Slaughtering and fucking a whole countryside of people for the sake of purifying them.
Tell us another one, fellas.

Sports Day

If you’re sitting there, amongst your rabble and filth, and you’re wondering:

Just how many babies are too many babies, philosophically?

The answer is however many babies are in this coffee shop with me right now.

You can dress them up, but…

I don’t care if the babies are Australian or some other adorable nationality.

Too many babies.

Speaking of too much of a good thing, The Olympics are happening right now.

As I type this, in fact.

My opinions and emotions that are reserved for this sham shift slightly with each new opening ceremony (not that I ever watch them. Get Metallica to open the show and I’ll check it out).

Being the counter-culture juggernaut that I am, the easy answer on what I think of The Olympics is as follows:

I hate them.

But I don’t hate them, I suppose.

They’re not for me, of course.
As far as participation goes, they’re not for me.

I’m not an Olympian, and perhaps that’s my problem with them.

It’s not my problem with them, though. 

It may be the fancy.

All of the goddamned advertising and hoopla makes me want to vomit into my toilet, certainly.

Everyone will argue that The Olympics are the only happening that truly brings the world together.

And, since (the original) Guns N’ Roses have stopped touring, this is relatively true.

Yet, I wouldn’t be in a rush to suggest that The Olympics brings the world together in a good way.

I don’t know how that ever came to be assumed.

I mean, it’s not like every country on the planet gets together at The Olympics in order to get drunk.

Even after the closing ceremonies are complete (Metallica again), there’s no dance.

Of course there are behind-the-scenes parties that only Michael Phelps gets invited to.

But none of these after-the-fact celebrations intertwine cultures, I’m sure.

The Olympics are like the subway is like your university’s business faculty.

Birds of a feather flock together.

The Chinese birds peck about with the other Chinese birds, and so on.

The Olympics brings all nationalities together so that they can be just as separate as they always are.

Then they rank this disparity based (generally) on wealth and population, stress its importance, and televise it on a global scale.

Tell me when all of this is supposed to be good for humanity.

This striving to best one another is what we’ve been doing all along, and it has never been to our benefit.

The parents are in The Olympics this time 'round.

The moms are throwing the javelins.

The dads are synchronized with the synchronized swimmers.

The (white) parents in the stands are getting as much attention as the athletes themselves.

Despite their support (which I don’t doubt is considerable), the parents have little to do with it.

“It’s their event, too.”

Give me a break.

If it was 'their event too', the child/parent teams would all fail because the parents are in their fifties.

What a preposterous fabrication. 

Put them on camera if they happen to be in the crowd.

Sure. Why not?

They’ve contributed enough to deserve that.

“So and so’s parents looking on as she prepares for her dive.

The mother looks to be as physically attractive as the daughter, and that’s something the Canadian team should be proud of.”

Fine.

But interviewing them, or putting them in leotards and sticking them in VISA commercials is fucking lunacy, if you ask me.

Did anyone ask me?

No?

Well, you should be asking me.

As someone without a real job, I can spare a great deal of time to think about this stuff.

Funny Meeting You Here

Watching an advert that has Joe Pesci or Ice-T in it is very confusing.
We've got a certain media psyche that we share these days.
The parameters have been established since our infancy (this excludes old people [luckily for them]).
Though we're not immediately aware of them, our subconscious understands and teeters on these very rules.
Joe Pesci's presence in a Snickers commercial bends those rules to the threat of breaking.
Seeing Ice-T in a Coors commercial is like seeing your Gym teacher buying groceries.
You feel like addressing them directly, saying:
"What are you doing here?
This is beyond the universe that I'm willing to accept you in.
You don't belong in this place at this time."
Unless it's the super bowl and you are Shatner, stick to the places you're supposed to find yourselves in, celebrities.