Social Kabuki

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March 2005 Diary Post - Redux

Sunday March 15th 2005 (2017 name redacted) and I went to McDonalds yesterday for lunch, it was quite an experience. First of all, you have to understand that I don't think either of us actually wanted to eat there. We were both just really fucking hungry. And after all, the sign in the food court said that we would be "loving it". 2017 Update - I am always hungry. I will always eat at fast food when given the opportunity. I always want to eat there. Who am I to argue with such a clever marketing campaign like that? So I walk up to the counter after a long period of deliberation ready to place my order. A Philippino girl (whom I later learned from the receipt went by the name of Narita,)asks me what I would like, so I ordered 2 of the big -extra value meals. When she asked me what I would like to drink, her accent was so strong that i could have sworn that she asked if would like cock. I immediately said yes and was quite disappointed when she retu

Just Like Mom Part 1

One of my favourite memories as a child is a horrrible incident that ended with my sister in tears. When I was about 7 and my sister 8, she lived for only one thing, a TV show. Cable TV wasn't really a thing yet, and one of the only channels we had access to on our Sony dial set was a game show called "Just Like Mom". The premise of the show was pretty simple, if not a little bit overdone (pun intended.) Three mother/daughter teams would compete in a first round of Honeymoon style trivia to the likes of what's your mothers favourite colour or who is your daughters favourite movie star (if it matters, hers was Tom Cruise and mine was of course Elvira... I was a weird kid.) No matter the score, there were no losers and all teams moved onto the final round - The Bake Off. Each daughter would have access to seemingly endless selection a of ingredients with the goal of baking the best cookies, which of course would be taste tested by mom. True to the 1980's,

Tubes & Tunnels Part 1

When I was in grade nine, my father brought the family together around the table for a family meeting, we were moving. These types of family meetings were a regular occurrence based on my fathers ocupation. One of the sacrifices to being a career soldier was that every two years, you would be required to uproot yourself as well as your dependants (that's what we were called on forms) every two years. Personally, this was never a sacrifice for me, this was an opportunity for a reinvention. I always held my breath in advance of the location reveal. Just where exactly would the "new me" resurface? Gone would be the evidence of the incident that ended with a broken arm. There would be no trace of the boy who ate too much on the ski trip and puked, and definitely no rememberance of that soaking wet bus seat on that long drive home from the Zoo. This move was slightly different. Rather than the normal isolated military base, we were being relocated to a large city.

Daily Affirmations

I take dozens of photos in the bathroom mirror each week. I find that it really helps to set the tone for the day by providing yourself with the opportunity to start each and every morning by harshly criticizing youself on a microscopic level. Pinch zoom allows you to do this one pixel at a time. I like to fixate on the random little spots dotted across my pasty white skin. I try new ways to suck in my stomach, and bend myself in random and unnatural positions in wasted effort to falsify a "V" shaped body like the guys I see running at the park. I flex my arms like I'm in competition. I am reminded over and over again that my first tattoo was a bad idea, and my body hair coverage resembles what I imagine it would look like if Robin Williams had a child with Ron Jeremy. That same body hair is quickly transitioning in colour from a handsome brown to a creepy santa like white. The hair (along with my hair covered fupa) is the only part of me that resembles Ron

Gone, gone, gone

I have no idea what to write about on this blog, the backspace on my keyboard is completely worn out. Every time I try to put my thoughts down, and every time that I am reasonably satisfied with what's been documented (mostly just cliche observations,) I delete it. I delete all of it. Every last word. Nothing left but a blinking curser and my dead eyed reflection on the screen. When I was in junior high school I was steady in my drive to be a successful writer and I couldn't see anything that would stop me. In high school I continued on with it and spent the brunt of my nights jotting down short stories and tucking them away under the mattress. I was so afraid someone would find them and point out to me how bad they were, or worse, notice how badly I wanted to sound like an adult. Even if these little tales were indeed discovered, and even if they were praised for the amazing chunks of fiction that they most definitely were, there was still reason to hide them.

Shanks and Sugar Plums

Each night before I go to bed, I prop my iPad up on the end table next to the bed to watch some copywritten tv shows on YouTube. More specifically I watch old episodes of National Geographics "Lock-Up". There is nothing better than being whisked away to dream land with the pleasant thoughts of Arizona's Tent City, or any one the million county lock ups in the good ol' US of A. Aside from learning that that I can melt the end of a toothbrush into a knife if I ever get into a jam, I have also learned something interesting about myself (well being honest, I have always known this, just never wanted to think to much about it,) I don't seem to think to much about myself. When I start thinking about how I would handle time in the big house, my mind goes immediately to what i think is probably a pretty fucked up place. I just think about what it would be like to be all alone in the yard with no one to talk to. I think about how jealous i would be of the popular in