ADAPT OR MOVE ON

So, today started out rather shitty. Humid, drizzly, muggy, no movement of air - just plain shitty. On my way to school, I realized that I had a flat. Sweaty, hot and now a tad mad, I got a lift from my ever reliable and sweet girlfriend to a west end bicycle shop. While I was there I struck up a conversation with the flat tire specialist. He was intrigued by my tattoos, showed me his tribal inspired leg piece and asked me where I got mine from. He was pleasant and not overbearing and annoying like a lot of people are when it comes to tattoos and their questions. "Where did you get 'em? What do they mean? How many do you have, anyways? Do you regret getting them, because you know they're permanent, right? Yeah I do. Thanks for asking. The typical questions I always get and ultimately try to avoid. Yes, I know that I have visible tattoos, therefore am open to interrogation from strangers, but... still. I'll get to my point in a bit. I then drove my newly repaired, tuned and tightened woman's cruiser home for some lunch. As I did the dishes and re-heated a three day old surprise, I turned the radio on to Mr. All Sports Radio Show Host, who was gabbing uncontrollably and incoherently about something. Then I paid attention, and realized that he was bashing those with tattoos, referring to them (I guess I mean us) as lower class freaks who defile their bodies and even went on to say that he roots for teams (especially basketball) that have the least amount of tattoos. "Why am I forced to look at them?" the sports jockey asked. Okay, so you don't like tattoos (and piercings as he pointed out later). Good for you. But, first of all, you don't have to look at them. No one is forcing you to watch this years extremely entertaining and dramatic play-off basketball - it's your choice. Just as it's someones choice to be fat, and show it off by wearing ill-fitting clothes (I don't necessarily buy the 'fat gene' theory - I think it's called a lack of desire and laziness). And please Mr. Dick Jockey, don't forget about all the other, every day stuff that we're forced to look at. Like the extremely overweight (and obviously oblivious) person with their belly and ass hanging out all over the street. Don't need to see it. But I do, and that's life. I deal with it. I don't like it, but I deal with it. A disgusting bulge is no different than a noticeable tattoo. It's the personal choice of the person and everybody else has to deal with it. That's how it goes. Obnoxiously loud and rude people who complain about everything. Deal with it. Smokers cough and self-inflicted injuries. Gross and unpleasant sounding and looking, but a part of life. Deal with it or shut up. I don't like seeing a pregnant teenager pushing a double stroller. But I do. And I deal with it. What I'm saying is that tattoos are becoming such a regular sight in everyday society that, for someone to be as ignorant and self-righteous to say that they belong in circus side shows is just plain dumb. Let me ask you a question Mr. Flappin' his gums for the sake of Flappin' - Do you hate your wife and avoid looking at her because of her pierced ears, or growing gunt or whatever else is going on? Filter your arguments a little, so they make sense - and don't make you sound like a supreme idiot. Humans are the worlds greatest adapters, so adapt and move on. You might be a happier and healthier person for it - while not alienating yourself from people based on personal decisions and taste.

MOSTLY. MAYBE. I'M NOT SURE.

Let's see. The theme of the day is supposed to be anxiety - as prescribed by my professor. Not the anxiety, but the theme, which is anxiety, so yeah. Let's see here. What do I get anxious about? Besides the aforementioned long slow moving lines, crowded rooms, theatres and stadiums - I'm decently together, but there's still some shit that makes me nervous, sweaty, worrisome and ultimately a bit mad (at myself and the not yet mentioned anxiety). Unpredictable neighbours with annoying ass voices, 2 equally annoying ass dogs (again, no offence to the dogs), a tendency to openly complain about anything, anybody, anywhere, and who might have something wrong with them emotionally and perhaps maybe even mentally. A surefire plan for some surefire clashing. If you're into that sort of shit. I like being nice to most people. Not super nice, just mostly cordial - and friendly enough to get by without a lot of unneeded contact.(Unless I instantly don't like you, which unfortunately [sometimes for even me] is unfortunate, yet necessary) When one gets to a certain age, one doesn't always necessarily feel the urge to seek out and obtain new friends, or respond well to those who seek them out as new obtainable friends. There comes a time (usually in your late twenties during the third phase out period) that one probably doesn't need any new friends in their life to feel right about their place in society. I'm sure it is not like that for all people, but then there is probably a reason why some people feel inclined to, 'always be looking.' I might sound cynical, scared and a little mean, or am I only being honest? Or just cynical, scared and a little mean? Is it worse to not want new friends or to want to make new friends? Think about it. The older one gets, the more one splits away from, even one's best of friends (b/c of moving away, different lives, fill in the blank),and when one does finally get together (it doesn't always happen)with said missing and 'old' friends - is it not as if they're almost 'new' friends again? (Even though when one gets together with said old friends, we try our hardest to avoid the present and future but our damnedest to remember the past)How many present, old 'new' and brand 'new' friends does one person really need to survive comfortably and with adequate support? Especially when one goes to school full time, or plays in a five piece rock 'n roll band, or relies on a woman's cruiser for transportation but likes it, or has a great girlfriend one doesn't see enough, or likes to play NHL '09 or NHL '07 (depending on one's whereabouts), or enjoys all sports (especially baseball), or goes out from time to time, or enjoys spending time with family at home or friends on the driveway, or enjoys spending time alone. It's tough. As is walking into something big, and totally unprepared for what you're about to (or supposed to) do. Another reason for anxiety. Other than the stuff in one's head that is altering brain cells, forcing and delaying random mis-firings, while ultimately triggering unnecessary and uncomfortable reactions - anxiety might be mostly brought on about by one's self. Alone. Not one's head, but rather, one's fault. Mostly. Maybe. I'm not sure.

WANNA PLAY CATCH? HERE BOY! HERE BOY!

When I'm sick with a shitty cold, sore throat and mild headache, there are certain things that will annoy me more, than let's say if I wasn't sick at all. When one catches a cold just before the beginning of summer, then wakes up from a terrible sleep to below average chilliness, the insistent howling and growling of an inconsiderate and oblivious neighbour's dogs (directly behind you), with a worse head ache and dry cough than one went to bed with - one might be a tad cranky. Or even pissed. But, still, surely tired. And you might curse the dogs and the sky by slamming all your windows shut, with some vigor, might I add. Maybe someone (your neighbour, who by the way lives in the same building as three other people) will hear it and (at the very least attempt to control) do something (probably not) about the obnoxiousness (I know, it's not the fault of the dogs) and his (did I say his?) complete lack of respect for others. When one does not complain about things, one will be the one complained about. It's one of life's funny, backward and silly games. That only stupid people know how to play.

WINDSOR + MEMORIAL CUP = STILL WINDSOR, SORRY WINDSOR

Super tall, out of control grass, growing happily and lazily alongside equally overflowing trash receptacles and chalk hate directed at a mayor. An unnatural nature trail - downstream and downwind from mines, plants and chemicals. Warm and hazy summers - grey and heavy from mines, plants and chemicals. A downtown strip already in financial trouble, now under siege and attack by yellow bulldozers, men in yellow hats and yellow steel fences. (Don't worry, the shops and bars are still open, just drive your car through the rubble, watch out for dump trucks and debris, park your car in a hole and walk under scaffold, to your favourite leather shop or Canada swag cigar hole). On second thought, just take a cab. On third thought, you can't. At least parking is free. Or is it? Just stay home. Even during a city strike you'd probably still get a ticket. But we have a Memorial Cup Championship. Now, all that Windsor needs is jobs not reliant on the auto/bar/smut industry, a decent (or at least different) mayor, better air quality, a decent (or at least different) city council, a solution to the stray cat, drug, gambling and lack of a solid overall plan problems - and an identity.

LIFE IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE OUT MAKING PLANS

I've often spoke of getting older. How it feels, how we notice, why it sucks, why it doesn't and whatnot. But now, I've come to realize that, if you haven't yet made a major-life-changing-adult-like-decision (eg. buying a house, getting married, having a kid, staring a career, etc.) then you really have no concrete, real evidence of yourself 'growing up.' You're still the same person you were ten years ago, minus some teenage ignorance and acne plus a little more baggage and smarts but still the same desires, dreams and goals. 'Cause, unless you're a born gigolo or recluse without feelings, friends or a soul, everyone yearns for those things - at some level and point in their life (though we don't always get it). Sometimes growing older happens with such silent yet abrupt subtlety like the green scaly growth of a hanging fern, that you only notice the change in others. Like 'kids' carelessly walking by. Yes, the same 'kids' we all used to be, but are now not. But, when did this transformation happen, if you still act, think (sometimes) and want the same things you craved as a kid? (fun, attention, fun) When one gets to the stage of 'invisibility' to the 'kids' we once were, then one knows that one is getting 'older.' Humans of the same age desire to hang out with humans of the same age, as if attracted by a force field of tired minds, nagging injuries, and many memories. Life is what happens when you're out making plans.

OUT OF SIGHT - OUT OF MIND - TOO MUCH TIME - MIND AND SIGHT

I've heard from a few people who have said that, when one writes first thing in the morning, the revealing power of the pen and paper unleashes thoughts, ideas, memories, and et cetera that would, during other times of the day not be as easily accessible for retrieval - that is, from the deepest, and mystical, yet inquisitive depths of one's inner mind. Because one is as close to a dream while awake state as one can possibly be. And from these written revelations one carries on for the rest of their day, a greater sense of possibility for the spurring of originality and creativity - than if one were to just wake up, get out of bed, and drag a comb across their head. However true this may be, I believe that there are other 'out of your head' moments that occur for other non-morning reasons, that can be utilized for profound understanding. For instance, if one does not sleep at all for at least one full night (this can happen for a number of different reasons) and attempts to act normally and interact with other people during the next day as if one got a solid 8 1/2 hours of z's - then one will say, think and respond to things in a wittier (no matter how witty you are to start with), possibly sarcastic, but probably more perceptive manner. It's as if because your brain hasn't shut off in 26 straight hours that it's impossible to stop thinking now - because you're awake, when you're supposed to be, but don't want to be, but are. A perverse, but illuminating 'brain rape' - if you will. You're mind has been racing and battling for so long, that you can't help but dissect and examine even the most minute of details, coming up with answers that make so much sense that nobody understands what you're talking about - let alone you. You say words and form sentences you didn't think you were capable of. Sophisticated rhyming couplets fall from your mouth like a shooting star tongue twists across the night's glowing face. This can also happen when you're intoxicated (unless you're a stumbling, mumbling or angry intoxicateur. This can also happen when you're scared. (though this 'out of one's mind' situation may be controlled more by irrationality than induced intuitiveness). And this can also happen when your sick in bed, and your body's aching bad, but your head is full of meds, and your feeling sorta sad, then you start thinking hard, cause you're really kind of bored, but you can't read a book, cause your headache really hurts, so you keep thinking hard, til you active brain waves tire.

YOU, ME AND THE PARKS

What a gorgeous day. One of the best yet. The best way to ruin a perfectly warm and breezy mid May day is to hear people complaining about you through an open window, ten feet away - for no other reason than to complain and sound stupid. Or you shut all the blinds and listen to some extremely depressing music. Or you meet a person for the first time ever and they tell you an ignorant ethnic joke. Take your pick. All three choices are as solid as a soup sandwich, that is if you want to snuff out a chillin' happy mood. Anyways, by coincidence really (or is it synchronicity?), on this beautifully sunny day - I decided to go for a short, relaxing rouler a la bicyclette. I headed north for a short while, then west, then north (for about 10 seconds) until I turned around and headed east along the river for a good ten minutes. Along the way I thought of some things, saw some things, felt the zephyr and the sun and then thought of some more things. Taking in the view I noticed (actually it was hard no to) how high the grass and dandelions have grown and, how even on such a nice day how little people were out enjoying the city's parks (This is most likely because the river is unappealing both in its appearance, attractiveness and smell). I wondered in my head who is most greatly affected by this lack of landscape hygiene. Certainly the citizens and residents of Windsor are. For many different reasons. I can't lay in the grass without fear of getting lost, bit or bowled over by a wayward runner or kid rolling down a hill. There's no more fresh grass smell, working fountains (both for viewing and drinking from), or getting out of the way for city worker's driving golf carts too fast down the path. The city's image is falling deeper and deeper into an unavoidable abyss of desperation, despair and ugliness. But, if less and less people are frequenting our city's only peaceful and pretty oasis' - who's paying the price? (or not getting paid at all?)That's when I rode by the guy 'not' selling fries from his little trailer at his usual spot down by the river. That's when I saw the Dickey Dee dude sitting beside an overflowed trash can double-fisting and drowning his sorrows in a Drumstick and baseball glove ice cream (the purple one with gum baseball in the middle). That's when I rode by only about 7 people fishing along that one stretch of the river(I don't have the numbers, but there's usually way more). That's when I rode by an empty parking lot and abandoned sculpture park. These are the one's who are feeling the strike's pinch. You me and the parks. Ow!

THAT LINE CUTTIN' CABBAGE JUST ATE A CAR

I'm drawing a blank today. Since I haven't gone on any inspirational cross-town cruises or ran into (I mean avoided) any old acquaintances, street weirdos or read or heard anything that sparked deep (or even any semi-critical) thought --- I have nothing to draw on for any sorta witty, surely biased, useless commentary. I did however, go to school to wait in three different lines. I hate waiting in lines, especially when, first of all I don't want to be in one and second of all, I'm in the wrong one. A waste of time, patience, standing still skills and waiting. When one exhausts all 'semi-legitimate' ideas for blogging (eg. state of city, state of employment, state of class, or state of mind) that's when perhaps the real and most honest shit appears. For example, I don't usually eat anything until at least one or two o'clock,(perhaps b/c I'm lazy, don't have any breakfast-type food), or maybe it was passed down from my Dad -- who does the same thing. That is, unless I go out for breakfast with friends after a night of being stupid, my girlfriend stayed the night and in the morning she is hungry or, I'm at my girlfriend's house and she makes me a cheese omelet and toast. Other than that, I will usually not eat anything in the morning - except coffee (which is made from beans, which are usually eaten, so technically I'm drinking something that is usually eaten, which means nothing). Another non-hereditary but 'weird that I do it too' trait I inherited from my parents was my driving style. Slow and safe, but jerky and nervous-like on the gas pedal. Thanks Mom. (She is the only person I know who has gotten a ticket for driving too slow. Do they call that a 'Slowing' ticket?) Probably not. Somehow, I've acquired (and mastered, by the way) my Mother's mini-but-many-pedal-pump-up-and-down-routine. It drives everyone else in the car crazy (and probably other drivers), but I'm fine with it - b/c I don't even notice I'm doing it. When my Mom and I are driving together, it's the most natural driving environment either of us could ever be in. Back to eating. When I can (which, in most normal of situations is usually always and necessary), I like to eat cheap. Cheap (let's keep it under twenty bucks) but good (tasty) and as good (healthy) for me as possible (at the time). Besides working on an empty stomach til 2 and stopping and going til there, I'm pretty masterly at creating something out of nothing. Food wise and music wise and poo wise (well we all are there, I guess).I'm the MacGyver of inexpensive, but decently delectable and hearty food. Give me a handful of rice, any coloured cabbage, some random canned goods, an onion and whatever else you have in your fridge and I'll give you a surprise. I'll also need the man made means to making meals. (I don't think that makes sense, but who cares?)An edible and nourishing surprise you'll thoroughly enjoy, and probably not want more of because you'll be too fully satisfied. The key is cabbage. Planet Earth's present day five loaves and two fish. (Would that make A&P, I mean Metro --- Jesus?) For a relatively low price, one can cut up and use (for many different purposes, besides salads, dye and an awkward bowling bowl)a nice savoy cabbage, and then watch in amazement and thanks as, for days, even weeks on end, even the smallest chunks yield a seemingly endless bountiful supply of the crisp and nutritious (especially for men, I hear)glucosinolate laced blades of the popular cultivar belonging to the Brassica oleracea species known simply as --- the cabbage. I've got 'em all. Every surprise imaginable. These are the preferable ingredients. If some are missing they can be replaced with AIG'S --- anything I got. Also, any kind of meat, cheese or spice, though not necessary, can be added to any and all recipes for extra flavour and substance. 1) Rice Surprise (the original): Rice (any kind), cabbage, corn, onions, salt, frozen veggies (preferably beans or broccoli), butter, pepper, or AIG's. 2) Potato Disaster: Potatoes (any kind), cabbage, corn, onions, salt, brown beans, frozen veggies (preferably cauliflower or miscellaneous greens), butter, pepper, carrots, or AIG's. 3) Pasta Magic (preferably served cold): Pasta (any kind), cabbage, onions, salt, frozen vegetables (preferably peppers or beans), pepper, peas, and, here's the kicker --- Italian Salad Dressing, or AIG's. There is also a variation to the Potato Disaster. A Breakfast Disaster (this is what I make when my girlfriend stays over and in the morning she is hungry) can easily be achieved by adding eggs and toast.

DIFFERENT FONT but FROM SUNDAY

When the Internet’s down, and I have no desire to bike or call back, am not hungry or in the mood to clean, enjoy sports or do anything I can do tomorrow --- I sit down with the guitar, strum (sometimes pluck) and sing. Songs of nothingness or everythingness. Whichever ‘ness my brain feels inclined to experience at the time of creativity --- or lack thereof. I think that for original creativity to happen, one must be able to let the unconscious mind take over things for a while. Alert and on auto-pilot with an eye on the sky. Allow your brain to control your hands and fingers, but only as meager tools for your mind to work and create nice things. This sometimes difficult fusion between here and there and where we want to be but don’t know if we can get there or even how to --- is forever rewarded when nothingness is transformed seamlessly and without effort into everythingness. These everythingnesses are sometimes about people I know (myself, sort of) and those I know the least (others, sort of). Sometimes I recall of things that happened (life) and those that hadn’t yet (life) or never will (life). I often ramble on like I’m drunk on delirium and high on words and sort of catchy phrases. I’ll make plans to dine with feelings I have never met. Every situation is an invitation for different company, as is the process of pulling prizes from thin air. Music is magic and magic isn’t real. But music is real. Which is why music is more magical than magic itself. Art of any kind, I’m sure can fit into this whimsically-magically-musically-category-ally. Huh? Are superb artists just more superb illusionists, throwers of voices and staged stunt shows? Were the Beatles just the world’s most high flying trapeze artists balancing precariously high above as we twist and shout below? Or were they just four guys from Liverpool who wrote probably the best songs ever made (Ringo included!), and who’s influence on people’s lives (in terms of the world’s cultural identity) is only rivaled in comparison of importance and size by people’s experience of the Beatles’ lives themselves --- and the amount of women the Fab Four slept with in the 60’s. Hmmm. Tough one. But, I think I’ll take the second option. Music is life and life is music as life is created like music is born. From feelings and actions. Inside our bodies and out. You dig?

FROM SATURDAY but NOT SUNDAY

I heard from someone I know that the May 24 weekend is great for, not only drinking multiple two fours (or multiple jager bombs) in multiplicity, heading up north and shooting roman candles off at drunken friends --- but it is also a fantastic time to start the year's gardening off right. I agree with the person who told me this. And how exactly do I know this to be true? Because I witnessed it first hand, in person, with my own two eyes while experiencing another well known May 24 activity. Casual bike riding. But, let me assure you that leisurely biking and even leisurely gardening is not the only productive things one can do for the first time all year on their third weekend in May. Starting a rock band with old friends is a good thing to do. Practicing in your one friend's basement and calling yourselves, Threat Level Midnight, is also a very smart decision. Now, let me tell you about today's east to west 20 km's in total Wyandotte bike trip. It started off with a bang. Coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Super human rocket fuel for my not too long, but not too short east to west 20 km's in total Wyandotte bike trip. The going's there were uneventful, though pleasant and extremely windy --- but a wind that was to my advantage. (I've come to realize that the wind, when windy, in Windsor, usually heads west, rarely across and never exactly north to south). However, during the going's back I started paying attention to my surroundings - and pedaling, at times sort of panting and at all times wiping a tad sweaty brow with the top of my hand) You see, though I take this same journey fairly often and in the same directions, it is hardly ever boring and usually quite interesting - unless it is early Sunday morning, raining, cold, really late at night, or the road’s closed, because then nobody’s out walking around doing things and I shouldn’t really be biking at those times anyhow. The theme of this not-too-short-semi-almost-long bike ride was anonymous reunions with perfect strangers --- and avoiding injury but feeling safe. Starring Mr. Me, and the short guy with the spiky hair and gigantically inflated chest and arms. I’ve almost rode straight into that five foot, wife-beatin’ waddling brick wall a few times before but, whenever I’m about to slyly slip by the King Kong Wrecking Ball (while probably going a tad too fast to be riding on the sidewalk, and maybe looking a bit odd myself) --- he smiles. A juice induced psycho possessed perma-smile maybe, but a smile nonetheless. When someone smiles at me, I smile back. And then I feel good for a bit. That is, until someone pulls the super-stare-I-smile-you-no-reply move, and puts me back in my place --- like Ms. Younger African Lady. I saw her on the way there getting on the bus, and on the way back getting off (Although the latter being more east-way and later in the day). I wonder where she was or what she was doing in between those two times of getting on and off. Did she just stay on the bus for three and some odd hours, meandering around Windsor’s transit routes wishing she had somewhere to go? Or was she worrying about the safety of her homeland? I don’t know but I do know that she hit me hard with the super-stare-I-smile-you-no-reply move (both times!), so I really don’t care, even if she did coincide her use of public transportation with my bike ride so as to not smile/wave and or nod at me --- twice. Not only did I run into two old friends, but I almost ran over and through four new friends. Actually, they could have easily got out of my way, instead they made things more difficult for no reason other than because they were Wyandotte Wonder Darlings with no realization of what they were doing to themselves or people around them. First I got boxed in and squeezed out by a pile of festering garbage bags, 10 feet of narrow sidewalk, a lamp post and an overweight and large ranting disabled guy on a motorized chair. Second, Mr. Looked Like a Nice Old Man set up a 180 degree human aluminum blockade in the middle of the intersection, his line of defense a 1970’s 10 speed and a pair of brown slacks. He just kept staring at me as I got off my bike, walked around him, onto the side of the road and pulled my bike over the curb and back onto the sidewalk - the very one whose entry Mr. Looked Like a Nice Old Man was courageously withholding. Next, I almost got smoked by Mrs. Arab Driver No Hijab and her late 90’s modeled mini-van, as she flew half-way into the intersection, stopping suddenly when she saw me --- and how close she was to other crossing ‘real’ traffic. Being the seasoned Wyandotte Wanderer that I am, I reacted accordingly before the situation even happened. However, the thing that struck me as fascinating was that all three of these near miss encounters happened within seconds of each other --- and that Mrs. Arab Driver No Hijab's passenger was not wearing a hijab, but, actually, that did not really surprise me because the night previous I had watched a semi-interesting but well made and long foreign flick with my girlfriend. One of its many short films (there were 16 in all) about love in Paris (my girlfriend loves everything ‘Paris’) was about a young Indian woman and her convincingly genuine belief that wearing the hijab was not only a totally personal choice but a way of self-expressing her independence and happiness for life and herself as an individual --- as well as those around her. The fact that Mrs. Arab Driver No Hijab was driving as opposed to Mrs. Arab Passenger Hijab is another life query that can be answered (mostly) by contemporary cinema. Later on that day I made a sandwich, played my guitar and watched hockey.

ANOTHER WYANDOTTE BIKE STORY, YAY!

Wyandotte is fun. Fun, slightly decrepit and a bit strange, but also jam packed with every kind of person and seemingly unnecessary yet still open little business/store/bodega/weird church of mountain and fire imaginable. Busy with traffic and pedestrians, but still wide and smooth enough to bike fairly safely down during midday action. However, one thing I do not find Wyandotte to be is the least bit intimidating or for lack of a better word (other than intimidating) - unsafe? No matter how many down and out, out-of-work, thug-like, tough-looking tweakers and/or random Wyandotte people I run into, I'm chillin'. Chillin' on my woman's baby blue cruiser heading due east and down wind, without a care in the world (or a job, or a definite plan for the future, nor a firm grip on Canadian politics). I'm not bothered by the toothless and haggard looking old man with the dirty white beard picking up butts off the ground and talking to himself. (At least he's not talking to me), or the half-empty cube vans and destination-less commuters rumbling around corners and out of side streets. (You know, the pair of zoned-out looking 40 somethings cruising in their Dodge Shadows, who are either looking for drugs/prostitutes/the casino/trouble or a decent breakfast place) Like I said, these abnormalities are becoming normal to me, perhaps I'm even blending in more than I thought I would with the Wyandotte Wonder-Darlings, as I attempt to understand their habits, actions and ways of thinking - or just plain watch them and think of subsequent nonsensical things as I cruise by. But, not everything about my trip down Paradise Lane is a thing of paradise. I do have a problem with some of the people I encounter along the way. For instance, if you're looking intently at me and I nod or say hello to you, but you continue looking at me intently and silently as we pass by each other - I feel like a fool for nodding or talking to you and I no longer feel like nodding or talking to anyone else. This might bother me for about 10 seconds or until I start (or am forced by what I see or hear) to think about something else entirely. However, even if you are a total degenerate trash hooker/and or a classic drunk stumbling down the road and you smile nicely at me (without talking may I add) I will smile back and feel fine about it - even if you are trying to get a dirty five bucks out of me. Today was an interesting little 20 km round-trip tour, one complete with an almost near death experience involving me, an unseen pedestrian in the way, a piece of steel suspended from a dangling cable hanging precariously from a streetlight - and little sidewalk room. (I should have been riding on the road, but, on some parts of the ride, I'd rather not) It also began with the the road side witnessing of some serious bumper to bumper road rage (blue Taurus vs. red Viper) and ended with head-on hurricane-like winds that whipped violently around buildings and down sidewalks - which felt like an invisible yet full body smack from a giant palm to this over matched casual cyclist. All things aside, the first leg of the journey was quite pleasant. (As were the state of my legs, so it turned out) Pleasant, sunny, warm and wind-stricken. However, because the gusts were barrelling down my back like a friendly yet hard push down a mountain, I barely even had to pedal - let alone steer. Well, yeah I still had to steer, but not as much as usual probably. Maybe it was the same amount of steering. But I definitely pedaled less, because I asked my legs after and, though they didn't respond in any distinguishable or audible language, they weren't burning as much as usual, so, according to my senses - I pedaled less.

ONE'S REALIZATION OF ONE'S SELF IS RELATIVE AND THE THEORY OF RELATIVITY IS AS SELF-ACTUALIZATION IS A TERM

It takes a fairly determined, strong-willed person to do something. Anything. It doesn't matter what that thing is, (eg. returning a phone call, washing your feet, reading required readings for school or anything that involves advancement through exertion and application, of any sort) In order to get up to doing any of these things, it takes something that most people can only get from others. A push, a pull, a swift kick, some semi-encouraging words from a different perspective or harsh advice backed by a harder push forward. (Or slowly and slightly more sideways than forward, depending on how you look at it) It seems to me, that humans (myself included here, not just because I'm a human but because this definitely applies to me) seldom take that extra step or courageous leap or second chance or stab at a bleak opportunity - not without a ton of support, or when all other options are exhausted and you are desperately grabbing at super small straws. Why? Because we're scared. Scared (or is it unable?) to change, move, re-locate, learn new things, meet new people, expand our minds through our beliefs and actions - and re-actions to others' actions. The price of age is one that is most expensive to our growth as people, (not in terms of bulging bellies and double chins but on a more philosophical level) because it is simultaneously difficult and easily excusable. That constant search for what seems like unreachable autonomy comes at a high price, which we pay for physically, emotionally, mentally, and socially - out of our own pockets. Then on the other hand (the one that is not in a pocket), if we start doing something willingly, natural and for fun and then are suddenly forced (or asked politely but sternly) to do it for reasons other than why we originally started doing it (eg. to kill time vs. for marks) then all of a sudden we don't want to do it anymore. (Not completely, but quite a bit less, at least) Even if we're good at it and like doing it and want to continue getting better at and liking it more. We trade control for patience, and spontaneity for control - an unequal transaction that may or may not spur creativity (but definitely urges effort to try). This may not apply to professional athletes (and some musicians, teachers, etc., and others who may come the closest to realizing self-satisfaction), however, even some of them feel the same way as us ordinary humans about the elite-and-skilled-kid-over-fun-plus-money-man formula that the major sports leagues apply like a back catcher's tag on a suicide squeeze or that society pushes on a rock band like an extremely drunk and willing groupie, (or is it band-aid? I'm not sure). Boy oh boy, humans are funny people, man oh man. I mean girl oh girl. Or is it woman oh woman? Speaking of which (people that is), there are probably many normal everyday people who are almost fully super functional and happy - through in and through out their lives. One's realization of one's self is relative and the theory of relativity is as self-actualization is a term.

LEAVING STAYING OR THINKING ABOUT LEAVING OR STAYING

In response to the last blog posted on this blog spot dot com dot blogger spot, the one about sweat 'n such, Up North dutifully and punctually commented that, and I quote, "I am sure that in many cultures like India or Japan, being hot is not even high on the list." True, I am sure. Though I have not been there, not even to one of those two places (with hopes of going to the other, one day), I bet that yes, a sweaty person walking around in public is a more frequent sight, just from what little I do know of these countries (eg. warmer/stickier climate, massive population, growing greenhouse gases, closer to the sun, what have you). Sure, maybe me and my rag and my bucket might fit in better there than here in Canada, but, what about the fact that I'm me - in another land. A faraway land where I'm already completely different than everyone else (in regards to height, skin tone, language, cultural identity, etc.), not to mention that I'm beat red and sweating profusely all over the floor or dirt, while riding a big baby blue women's beach cruiser or sitting cross-legged on the ground, whatever. Wouldn't I, the already above average hot 'n sweaty foreign bald dude be even more of a spectacle than the shorter than I, same colour as everybody else, average hot 'n sweaty local dude? And, isn't it a tradition or something in a lot off those countries to take off your shoes in doors and such? I'd fit in perfectly and imperfectly all at once. The land my nightmares dream of taking me - while I'm awake. Like an indicted baseball player getting involved in a ponzi scheme. You'd think a steroid-happy meathead would try his hardest not to get caught with his pants down, by not only the same people who (from the top down) are not only supplying the juice and stealing his money, but are going to make him testify in a supreme court as to why he simultaneously destroyed his and MLB's reputation and credibility (from the top down) - by injecting estrogen into his ass. I mean, nobody is gonna bail out the disgraced big leaguer or the person who's moved. Alternative measures will have to be taken in order to replace the familiar bail-outs of home. Let's say if someone moved to a big city to find a job or what have you, but miss their families and friends and don't really care for hecticity (this is a made up word combining hectic and city) - is it even worth the move? Maybe in dollars and sense (yes, that sense) it is, but not in terms of those things deep in your mind and heart that are unexplainable unless there is a word for them. You know, feelings. Who knows? Maybe, in time, people can learn to adjust (I've learned to adjust somewhat [in only ten short years] from living in the carefree, safe, open-wideness of the county, to that of the economically unstable, crime-ridden gridlock surviving of the bigger city), to strange surroundings, after all, humans are pretty good at adapting. What I'm getting at here is, maybe some people are better suited to live, work and ultimately belong to other countries/cultures/or faraway lands. Like the cousins in Asia or the brothers in B.C. Or the friends in big cities or sisters in Northern Ontario - while others are not. What I'm getting at is people move all over for all kinds of different reasons. Some for more personal reasons than just "I need a damn job," reasons. It's all a crap shoot really if it's gonna work out. I mean, how can you really know unless you go - even if you're extremely prepared, or forced to go on a whim because you desperately need work, love or a drastic change in scenery, landscape and people. Maybe people are born vagabonds, (like James Hetfield and the millions of Jews who wandered the desert), destined to travel the earth's greatest lands in a constant search for a life of tranquility, civility and hope, that for some reason is unattainable at home. Or perhaps those who stay are the smart ones, a superior people who believe that they can realize their fullest potential by staying put. Or maybe they're just lazy. Or prefer living and dying where they were conceived and born. Or, there are many other reasons too.

ME & MY RAG & MY BUCKET

I have decided, that today will be the day I take the power back. Not from the Conservative Government, Eddie Francis, society, my landlord, professors or that guy who doesn't like me at the Liquor Store. I will take the power back I often give freely to others, mostly strangers, unwillingly on their behalf, without knowing and probably without them even caring. For some reason, I have developed a problem dealing with crowds, long lines, and staring eyes. However, most of these eyes are probably peering at me from inside my own head, but that's all that matters anyhow, right? I don't know exactly when it started or if there was some sort of triggering episode like a fall on the head or some deep subconscious trauma - but it's here and real and I need it to go away if I want to take the power back. Here's the thing readers (I mean Up North, Katie, and the few stray friends who remember I have a blog and are willing to sacrifice a few minutes out of their busy days to read some nonsense). I have a sweating problem. Or is it a sweating solution? No, I don't have the solution (yet) so, it must be a problem. Sure, I could twist it around and make it seem cool to perspire (In humans, sweating is primarily a means of thermoregulation, so by definition it is sort of 'cool'), a la 'being bald' - but I won't. I won't say that because I sweat a lot I don't leave the house unless its raining, or, that I save mad money when filling up my tropical fish tank by wringing out the salt water from my clothes, socks and hats. Or that I don't shower, I just sweat and I enjoy playing slip 'n slide - on the sidewalk. No, I'm not proud to be the world's slipperiest, saltiest and stinkiest sweat ball, one who never wears grey shirts, lifts his arms up in public, sits on black leather chairs, or takes his shoes off in other people's houses, but one who always (out of necessity and fashion) sports a sweat rag, like one sports a Gucci watch or a trendy scarf in summer. I suffer from high intensity swass - in the dead of winter. It's not a coincidence that my door hinges never squeak or that I never need to buy butter or apply deodorant (because it doesn't work, anyways). I don't go in saunas, I just walk into rooms. This sweating thing seems to manifest itself out of nowhere and into something for one reason or another, at the most inopportune times. One minute I'm calm, cool and collected, the next I'm a freakin' out sweaty mess. But, you may ask, "How do you confront and deal with something that, really, doesn't even exist except through your own paranoia?" I don't fucking know, but I'm going to find out. Maybe I might have to get some therapy or be hypnotized, or my glands zapped shut by a laser - but that shit costs major moola and might not even work, not to mention it sounds a little painful and unnatural. I could always wear that one shirt I have that miraculously conceals all stains no matter how active my pores are. But then I got the forehead sweat to worry about, that endless supply of chemicals that seemimgly appear and flow out of the top of my head like a mirage and onto my face like a salt water waterfall, stinging my eyes like a jellyfish. (No, I don't wash my face in piss). I'd need to invent some sort of water proof baseball cap with a concealed interior fan and trough-like outer design that catches and releases the overflow - while not looking too noticeable and weird in public. If I could find some way to harness the sweat glands and use it to turn a profit, then I wouldn't give a shit about any of this other awkward social garbage. Because I'd be a millionaire. No, a billionaire sweat tycoon, who oozes wealth, class and odorants o and p-cresol, as well as small amounts of urea. A perspiration philanthropist I'd be, known the world over for his good looks, high class and ability to turn excess sweat into just plain excess. But what else could stimulated sweat glands be used for other than lowering the bodies temperature and creating anxiety in long lines or crowds. Super human grease? I'm sure one day soon this whole biodiesel fad will blow over and/or deplete and human grease will become the newest green product. Superbiosweat. Yes, that is how I will make my fortune. I will become the world's first individual sweat dredger, a human factory and one man supplier, who, not only jogs for good health but to produce good wealth. I don't exert myself, I merely fill orders. Me and my rag and my bucket.

WARM PINK LIFE

Manny being Manny. That's all it is. Isn't it? Just a few weeks ago I was praising my resurgent undying passion for the game of baseball. I believed it was heading mostly back in the right direction after the Rocket and Barry fiasco of a few years ago. I even went as far to say that, and I quote, "The closest baseball has to a prima donna [now] is Manny being Manny - and I love everything he does." - Kieran Wilson, a few weeks ago on (or is it in?) his blog. So, now, (because of ManRam's recent suspension for testing positive to performance enhancing drugs, that of course, he attributes to a false positive) am I supposed to believe that all of those Manny being Manny moments were tainted because of steroids (or a banned medication, as his lawyers call it)? Like that time when he cut off Johnny Damon's throw to home from center field - from his position 15 feet away in left field. Or how about that play where he almost simultaneously and in one swift motion, caught a deep fly ball and jumped up to high-five a fan in the first row? Or when he disappeared through a door in the green monster with two outs in the top of the sixth inning during a pitching change - to pee? Can that be attributed to being a Manny Moment or a stick the needle in my ass moment? Is everything we, as fans, viewers, or just plain people, cheer for, watch or just plain enjoy - a sham, farce or just plain fake? Was the time that Manny hit that long fly ball from to center field, then stood in the batters box admiring his sure-to-be-home-run, only to watch as the center fielder caught the ball easily at the warning track - supposed to be detrimental to and a stain on the game instead of being hilarious and fun? What else do I love and hold dear to my heart like baseball and its heroes, that will only one day turn out to be a crock of shit - and detrimental to my mental well being as a person and general stability of all I know as being true? Am I going to one day read on the front page of the newspaper that, Michael Keaton's beard in Mr. Mom was a fake? Real hair (donated from his back and arms), but fake beard. Will I realize that the dirtball strutting by my house, the one who's always fighting with his dirtball pregnant girlfriend about cigarettes or why he's always out with his dirtball friends - is one day going to be a good father and a productive, positive member of society? Will I? Am I supposed to believe that someone did (or did not) poison my family's pet cat with anti-freeze or was Snoop sent up (or is it down?) to Earth by Satan (or God) to wreak havoc on my mother's furniture and help wipe out Beelzebub's (or the Father of Jesus') only known nemesis (birds). That one, maybe not. But the others, who knows? When every seemingly law abiding, decent, politician out there is being sent to jail for ponzi schemes, kinky sex and murder for hire, where do you turn? To 80's hair metal band Poison, that's who. Just like slick ass back then, but now pathetic Bret Michaels says, 'Give me something to believe in,' please? Am I supposed to believe that coffee, cigarettes and booze are bad for you? Who'll be the next fallen hero or indicted star and, what will I read next on the back page of Sports Illustrated that will ruin my day? What most familiar and influential part of my childhood is going to turn out to be a publicity stunt or uncovered by Geraldo as, not true? Was the roar of '84 just an animal reference taken out of context? Who's next? Is Dustin Hoffman Hitler's great grandchild? And am I going to find that out on Late Night with Jimmy Kimmel, or Late Night with Jimmy Fallon or Late Night with Leno or Conan or Late Night with Late Night, whatever? This is why I try to stay away from the news. Because its usually bad news. However, it was news to me to find out about Windsor losing its only local television station and news channel. What I'm saying is that, news will silently and swiftly man-track you when you're out of breath and fifteen feet from the finish line, and getting caught with a lasso is no fun - which is why I run (usually ride) from news. Preferably in an east to west fashion down a soft wind into a warm pink sky. If news is nothing more than a distraction from more important things (which we all know it is), then does it not make sense that we should distract ourselves from the news with life. Warm Pink Life.

DAMN TRIOS GOT ME AGAIN!

Yesterday I was speaking of certain civil acts committed by certain civilians that should perhaps warrant or at least be considered for real-time, real-world censorship (eg. too-loud/too-public arguments, pregnant children, gross or unnecessary acts, etc) and today, I got my first taste of reverse civil censorship by a civilian on a civilian (or getting C'd, as I like to call it). A little old lady cashier, who, was not much bigger than her empty cash register and poofy hair combined but, with either too much time, balls or resentment towards younger people (especially those wearing my clothes, looking like me and whistling, "Strawberry Fields Forever," through their front teeth, half-smirking as they deliberately and randomly emptied their cart onto the esca-table), unexpectedly and somewhat cruelly attacked my credibility - at 9:15 in the morning, in A&P, in front of my girlfriend. My, how embarrassing! I almost dropped my double double in disbelief, but I didn't because that would have been a total waste of money and a well made double double, which by the way is harder and harder to come by these days, even though I'd tend to think that, in an economy such as ours, companies would be trying their hardest to deliver the best product possible because, well, you know, with the economy being how it is and such. Anyways, let me back up a touch here. I applied and received a credit card a few weeks back (Big surprise there. What I want to know is, how does one not qualify? Because, if a 29 year old student with some serious school debt, no job and a touch of bad credit in the past, can get one easily and without question then, who the hell can't?) Hmmm. I mostly got the card of doom because I needed a bit of instant cash on the fly, (I shouldn't be writing this, but its too late now), but also because it's easier to get one if you're a student (that's what the teller told me) and apparently in the future it'll be a good idea to have something called, "good credit." (that's what my parents told me). But what is good credit anyways? If I were the guy who labels standings I'd call it, "Pays mostly on-time, most of the time?" Anyways, again, so, I got this what I like to call, 'Lent fake plastic money that we hope to God you abuse and overuse' - from the bank (yes it was during one of my mid-day bank excursions), and I handed it to the A&P clerk, so as to pay for my meager and predictable grocery selections (canned stuff, cheap stuff and Triscuits). "I'll use this thing here," I said, as I passed her a piece of plastic and some magnets. She then slid the card in the little slider taker and was about to hand me the little paper signer and - that's when I got C'd. Suddenly my little nice old lady cashier friend turned into a new age Angela Lansbury, a more jaded and presumptuous version, however, in tune with the times. "You got any id, boy?, she demanded in a non-threatening, yet still threatening kind of way. She was chomping at the bit, almost drooling to get the chance to apply her Police Foundations training (yes, even little old lady cashiers are not immune to recession's cough) that she'd been receiving at Trios College. "Uhhh, no I don't," I said taken a back, a bit. "Well you need ID now, boy. Because of recent credit card fraud, we here at Metro (what the hell happened to A&P?) demand to see some sort of picture ID, or, I can use my hand-writing analysis and lie detection skills I've learned at school to determine if I will accept this card and let you eat." Since I didn't have my wallet because I don't carry a wallet (because a chiropractor once told me not to), I decided to take my chances by signing my own signature. Because I was hungry. And now a bit scared. Now, I have to tell you that in recent years, I have taken a liking to signing my name in a variety of different ways. Depending on many different things (mood, writing surface, type of pen, paper, subject of writing, air/light quality, etc) I will write differently almost every time I write. Sometimes I print, sometimes I try cursive and sometimes I do a weird combination of curls, lines, capital letters and dots. I even sometimes try to sign stuff like a baseball player signs an autograph through a fence to a reached out hand holding a ball - You know. Quickly, barely legible, yet still looking cool in multi-coloured wrap around shades, while holding the pen loosely using only a few fingers and not much hand. Like a baseball player does. So I grab the pen and receipt from Detective Lennie Briscoe, intent on proving my innocence and her excessive doubt wrong. As I go to sign, I look up and see her staring down at me, reading me, all the while shielding my card from me as if I forgot how I signed it and was trying to forge my own signature. Which I did and was and she knew it. Damn Trios got me again! After forging my own signature I handed the evidence back over to Batman for examination. At this point I started sweating. Not because I was hot, but because I was starting to get a bit mad, and sometimes I start sweating when I'm nervous, and especially when I'm nervous and mad and already a bit annoyed. Which didn't help me in my defence against James Bond's personal grocer Pussy 'O Paper or Bags and her human lie detecting old lady watch, built specifically for her by Q, the head of the fictional research and development division of the British Secret Service known as Q Branch. Super old lady teller looked at the back of the card and then the signature on the paper, then at the signature, then at me, then back at the card and then me again and then..."These don't match up," she snarled in satisfaction, half-laughing in disgust as she handed the tampered evidence back to me. "Try again." Now hold on now. This was now getting a little out of hand. Making me sign once and thus proving myself unworthy to buy groceries from you is somewhat annoying and time consuming enough while also charging, proving and convicting me of something I didn't do. But twice? There's no way that the signatures were that far off to have to warrant a second attempt, for, there was at least some resemblance in the two dips of the 'K' and a slightly unvarying connected underline attached to the last 'n' that swoops down under the 'Wilson' and half way through the 'Kieran.' No matter how haphazardly and random I sign my name, I usually always at least keep those two things fairly consistent and somewhat comparable, thus saving me from exactly what I needed saving from now - the merciless grips of a tyrant in her late sixties who drank a bit too much prune juice on the rocks this morning. "It's really him," testified my girlfriend, now seeing that the worlds most ancient and intimidating one person jury might feel sympathetic towards her guilty captive - after hearing a little character testimony on his behalf. Judge Ito looked at her coldly, peering into her very soul and seeking out her lies. So, I took a deep breath, wiped my brow and tried again. I looked at my previous attempt and tried to do it a bit differently, but not too differently so as to raise more unnecessary suspicion and, how maybe I thought I would have signed the card when I signed it, but at the same time looking confident and without concern of, 'tripping up.' Nope. Couldn't do it. Too much pressure for no reason. I knew before I even scribbled the last stroke, that I was in for. No food today. Bruce Willis was taking me out. "Nope, still doesn't match up. I'm sorry, boy, but you can't fool me." So, my girlfriend ended up paying for my groceries and now I owe her fifty bucks and we had to wait five minutes for the clerk to reimburse my credit card because she still charged me even though she was sure as constipated shit that I was a fraudulent punk trying to weaken the economy with my intricate credit card scam. My favourite part was at the very end, when Jessica Fletcher handed me back by used and abused, however, unused credit card. (I'll probably still get charged for swiping it twice). Slightly smirking almost like I had at her earlier, she said with satisfied vengeance, "Here's your card back." The nerve of this little old lady bitch. "My card, I said, (under my breath as I walked away because at this point I just wanted to get the fuck out of there), now it's my card, eh?" Some people just don't understand the concept of getting C'd. Now I do, and I don't like it. When one tries one's best to be unseen, unheard and not bothered while living in everyday normal society as a ninja-like, monk-like fly on the wall, who's superior at slight of hand and illusions - you will still get fucked with by little old ladies at A&P with chips on their old shoulders (Sorry, Metro) who judge you on your appearance and by what time of day it is - and by whether or not they forgot to take their pills or can even see and hear what you're saying to them (No offense to all the real, nice little old lady tellers out there).

PRIMETIME REAL-LIFE CENSORSHIP

As I was riding my bicycle (big surprise) around town the other day, I got to thinking (even bigger surprise). I don't understand censorship on television. What I mean is, how does something become censor-worthy? When is that proverbial line crossed, the one that forces the FCC (or whoever it is) to loudly step back over, blow that proverbial whistle and push? (I don't even know what proverbial means) Is it a special word (eg. fuck, cock, n****r, what-have-you) or a placement of special words (fist, bitch, what-have-you), or special act (nudity, making fun of certain people, swearing, some violence) or special combination of them all, that urges whoever is in charge (in my mind I see a giant screen a la Wizard of Oz) to police and ultimately extinguish our freedoms of speech, expressions, etc. Because, as I see it, there is much more vulgarity, obscenity, and reasons to shudder occurring in real-life society situations - than there ever is, was or will be on 'family friendly' television. And, the kicker for me is that the real-life, 'uncensored' drama that unfolds daily before our very eyes and very ears is very real. Which is very scary. Life is as terrifyingly real as she gets and that my friends, is much more offensive than a nipple on prime time, or a 'Goddammit' uttered before breakfast. For example, when I'm out and about, minding my own damn business, I should not be subjected to having to see and hear, lets say, three pregnant catholic high school girls, walking down Wyandotte, strutting, swearing and smoking in their skirts. Now, that's vulgar. I also prefer not to see a little kid riding an adult sized bicycle. There's something about it that just doesn't sit right with me. I don't like seeing an aging drunkard leaning outside against a tile lined bar in the middle of the afternoon, smoking a cheap cigarette and hitting on an equally disturbing prostitute/drunkard/druggie, who is also leaning against the wall. Because they usually smell and look terrible, and often heckle me as I ride by. I shouldn't have to see a gross skank's or fat guy's ass and/or belly, a druggie's track marks or a bum picking up butts. But I do. When I drive by a younger wigger punk and his wigger punk girlfriend, I should not be subjected to, "Hey Dude, you got a smoke?" First of all, no, and second of all, shouldn't you be breaking into cars, waiting in line for welfare or starting fights outside your vocational school? When I think of obscenity I think of that gold jewelry, expensive 'urban' clothing wearing Arab guy with the polished bald head and skinny beard who insists on blaring his bombastic beats while he vacuums out his stupid shiny rimmed black grand prix. I really don't care that you're cleaning your car, but must you subject me and the ten other people who are also cleaning their cars in the same car washing parking lot - to have to listen to your ear crackling garbage. How obscene. But of course, I am not so naive or ignorant to believe that I, myself do not, at times, contribute to the breaking down of this real-time drama we call life. Which is exactly why I leave my shoes outside of someones house before entering, jam during the day, cover up my tattoos in certain social situations and generally keep my problems to my self. So, what I'm saying is, how can anything shown on television, that for the most part is not real, be censored when the real world is the most obscenity laced, vulgarity bound offensive and uncensored show you'll ever watch. And hear, smell and sometimes taste.

A SHORT (SORTA LONG) IRRELEVANT STORY ABOUT...

If you're bored, semi-fun hungry and in the mood for some mindless yet wildly entertaining entertainment - come waste some time with me. Because when I'm in the mood for some full-out, anything goes people (I like to call it stranger) watching (I like to call it staring), I hit up the bank. The Royal Bank of Canada to be exact (mostly because I have an account there, but also because the plethora of oddly intriguing people is almost too much to handle! Yes, its true. When I've got some time to kill, I sometimes frequent the long, slow moving lines of the RBC. The best time to go for maximum viewing pleasure, is the nearest you can get to 4:30 before the bank closes, because the best shit happens when there's a long line at quitting time. Not so much to make a transfer, check my account balance, or sign up for something that isn't going to help me financially, but to watch and listen to, like I mentioned before - the show. I am the only audience member in a movie that I am watching and enjoying intently while simultaneously acting in, directing, narrating and filming - with my eyes, and my brain is the editing room. Today's matinee featured a full cast of rising sure-to-be-superstar-non-aware-actors. In front of me, Mr. Me (that's me) who was in the bank for matters unknown (actually it was to stranger stare and make a meaningless withdrawal), and at the end of a long line was Mr. Nervous Chinese Man. Mr. Nervous Chinese Man was holding (more like scrunching) what looked like a bill of some sort. He was also looking around as if waiting for someone (or something) to come along and help him or perhaps even kill him. He made quick glances all around and seemed confused, nervous and maybe even a bit scared. The three tellers seemed to be taking their sweet old time a little bit more than usual today. Every single encounter occurring between "client" and "clerk" was as unique to each other as they were long and tedious affairs. On the far left of the stage, Ms. Clerk Chinese Woman was in fine form. I've never before seen someone walk so deliberately slow, from the back of the bank (why do they always have to walk so far to do the simplest things?) and then back to her kiosk or wicket or as I like to call it - desk. You could even go with table. Patiently leaning on his portion of the the dark blue table was Mr. Gold Watch Arab Man - who was standing cool, looking cool and waiting for his cash. Ms. Clerk Chinese Woman was walking so slow, that her movement looked uncomfortable, as if it would have been easier on her body if she walked at a normal no-energy-consumed speed. She finally returned with what looked like a couple of grand in one hundred dollar bills. Mr. Gold Watch Arab man smiled. Ms. Clerk Chinese Woman sort of smiled. Mr. Me smiled. And Mr. Nervous Chinese Man kept looking freaked out and scared. In the middle, working (slowly) at the second of four 'desks' from the left (only three out of the four 'desks' were in use) was Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman, who appeared to be trying to help Ms. Black African Woman get a loan (or so it seemed). This interactive face to face transactivation was also super duper slow going but in the end it turned out that all the client wanted was the low-down on getting a loan and in turn, Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman was going to write down some information for her - about the loan. With a pen. On some paper. With her hand. It took a while. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly, especially Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman's writing hand, and Ms. Clerk Chinese Woman's entire body, but Mr. Me didn't care because he was there after all - for the developing show. In time with the dramatic beat of the human movie thus far, the plot thickened. On the north side (far right) occupying the fourth of the three units in use was Mrs. Younger Perhaps Portuguese Woman. She continuously and perhaps unknowingly tapped her left foot and looked around slightly as Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk asked her if she wanted her change in quarters or loonies. Mr. Me could not hear Mrs. Younger Perhaps Portuguese Woman's answer, but he was hoping she'd said, "No, give 'em to me in pennies, Puta!" That was the audience member in me, sorry, back to the narrator in me. Like I said, after all, it was 4:27 and who knows what other kind of people these three totally different yet probably fairly equal in pay women - had already dealt with, throughout the day - behind their wickets. It probably wasn't pretty. At this point, Mr. Me got his first look at the person standing first in line in front of Mr. Nervous Chinese Man, who was now weirding himself out more than ever. Ms. Dark Maybe Arab Maybe Not Woman was getting antsy and also standing pretty close to Mr. Nervous Chinese Man (at first I thought maybe they were together, but soon figured out that they were not). Now, Ms. Dark Maybe Arab Maybe Not Woman had been in line for a while and she knew, just as Mr. Me and Mr. Nervous Chinese Man knew - that something was going to happen. All at once things started to happen, just like we all thought was going to happen. After what seemed like minutes, the excitement level began to build to a level not yet reached during that afternoon's performance. Now knowing what they had to do, as if their minds were hooked up to a huge invisible punch clock floating amid the RBC rafters of their minds, the three out of four woman of the wickets got down to business - with 4:30 pm ringing their ears and burning their eyes. (not literally, but their expressions did change from a rather casually apathetic one to one of intense worry). As if realizing that if they didn't pump up the action a bit so as to get out of there faster, more and more end of the day yahoos like Mr. Me and there rest of his colleagues would stream in for some ridiculous and probably unnecessary last minute banking, forcing them to work past their already generous governmentish work day. Suddenly, Mr. Gold Watch Arab Man in his calm and cool manner, spun away with his wad, simultaneously leaving the bank, leafing his bills and looking damn cool in the process. Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman finished scribbling and quickly ripped her note of loan help off a pad, and handed it to Ms. Black African Woman who thanked her kindly. Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman kindly ignored her, and, looking tired yet determined to end the day, she automatically and insincerely ushered in Ms. Dark Maybe Arab Maybe Not Woman. I don't know what happened between Mrs. White Clerk Windsor Woman and Ms. Dark Maybe Arab Maybe Not Woman but I do know what happened between Mr. Nervous Chinese Man and Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk, (sort of) who had just tidied up her exchange with the foot tapping Mrs. Younger Perhaps Portuguese Woman. At least, I think I understood this most crucial next part of the film. Mr. Nervous Chinese Man rushed up to the desk, speaking incoherently, and mumbling something to the teller. Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk looked confused, but also a little amused by this obviously distraught man's actions. "Can I help you, asked Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk. Mr. Nervous Chinese Man's next move was to lunge towards the helpless teller, his clenched bill holding hand leading the surge. Almost instantly, Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk's expression changed to more of a "what the fuck?" looking one, and then almost more instantly, Mr. Nervous Chinese Man, still jibberishing to himself about overdue flying carpet bills paid in space, stopped, spun around, pointed towards the front of the bank and ran out. "I guess not," said Mrs. Older Shorter Eastern European Lady Clerk, chuckling in her heavy yet to be determined accent. Everyone turned towards the entrance in anticipation of who or what Mr. Nervous Chinese Man was apparently trying to warn us all of. At that point, Mr. Just Another Late Banking Yahoo walked up and into the roped-in empty line. Mr. Me did his banking and left. As he was walking out he just assumed that Mr. Just Another Late Banking Yahoo had waited in the front of the of line until it was his turn, walked up to either stall one two or three, did his last minute yahoo banking and then left as did the remaining three woman clerk's - after they cleaned up their "desks," rounded up their personal belongings and made exiting pleasantries as they, well exited. End. This is just one example of the many real-life-anything-goes-live-on-the-spot-movie-sets that we walk onto day after day. Keep the camera rolling and the editing room door open.

Some others prime stranger staring spots: The mall. While waiting for your girlfriend to shop, one can, and with relative comfort, sit on different benches (depending on which retail store your g/f is in, of course), and/or those leather massage chairs found throughout the mall and enjoy differing variety of people de actionne (depending on which part of the mall you're in, of course). However, you may have to share a bench with an elderly person and their cane and people walking by will sometimes stare harder at you then you at them - and noisy, rambunctious, teenage kids can be annoying and troublesome, sometimes. Damn kids!
Volume -3/5 Variety - 3.5/5 Dependability - 4/5
Volatability - 3.5/5 Comfortability - 4.5/5

A front porch on a pleasant evening on a West Windsor street, or anywhere near downtown. You're bound to get a glimpse at every city dwelling yahoo in the book here. Like, the drunk Indian guy collecting cans, the wily mulatto prostitute, the pack of skater kids darting through traffic, the old Chinese ladies with their young grandchildren running wildly ahead, and the unemployed men on welfare riding motorized bicycles to the beer store down the street. The best feature of the front porch, is that most times, your stranger staring can go undetected. A man sitting on his porch might as well be an invisible man sitting on his porch.
Volume - 2.5/5 Variety - 4.5/5 Dependability - 2/5
Volatability - 4/5 Comfortability - 5/5

Cruising on a bicycle down Wyandotte at 4 in the afternoon. This pleasant west to east trip offers a never ending supply of some of Windsor's finest citizens - or tax burdens, however you may look at it. Pedal through the Asian, Arab, African, dive bar and smut districts. Don't be alarmed by the overwhelming percentage of lower rated viewing during your ride, for this trip is the highest rated for shock value and lowest for quality. Poor immigrant families, down and out drunks, shady businessman smoking outside of shady businesses, pregnant teenage girls pushing strollers, junkie hookers, overweight mentally challenged people in those electric carts and the odd normal person - are commonly sighted on the Wyandotte trek, but that's good because one doesn't take this trip in hopes of spotting a 'normal' person.
Volume - 3/5 Variety - 4/5 Dependability - 3.5/5
Volatability - 5/5 Comfortability - 2.5/5

Sitting in a parked car in a parking lot down by the river. Not only can you get in some really good quality stranger staring here, from the comfort of your own bucket seat, but the sunny, warm weather and picturesque views are free and boost moral. Despite being dependant on the weather forecast, the river offers somewhat different types of viewables. Athletic people and non-athletic-but-trying-people litter the pathways alongside the Detroit River. However, tranquil settings, fresh air and weird art is prone to attracting all different sorts of people - and the riverside doesn't disappoint. Homeless men, tourists and fishermen mingle with soccer moms, university students and local celebrities like A Channel's Jim Crichton.
Volume - 3/5 Variety - 5/5 Dependability - 2/5
Volatability - 1/5 Comfortability - 4.5/5

HUMOROUS HUMAN HOMER J. SIMPSON

I was watching the Simpson's the other night and as Homer was doing something ridiculous, yet hilarious and cruel, I realized something. The score for a television show and especially a movie is so very important for so many reasons. Not only does it act as a bridge for different scenes but it totally forces the viewer to react and feel the emotion intended by the action. Without the synthetic symphonic string sections of scene six, we would be lost and might not even understand the story (no matter how simple it may be). What other things do we take for granted that, we realize only when they're gone just how important they were to our normal, functioning everyday life? Fresh air. Yes, obviously. Something less obvious yet still so very obvious that, when we think of it we can't believe how obvious it really is. Of course. A car. When one drives one's own car for quite a while and then stops driving one's own car for quite a while then, for quite a while afterwards, one will find it hard to adapt to not driving one's own car when one wants to get around, on their own - for quite a while. Especially if you move to the city from the county where, as a kid, you spent some whole entire days cruising through the concessions. And the only time you've ever utilized city transit was once in your life, when you were 11 years old and you and your school friends from Leamington went to the University of Windsor library to do the most extensive research of your life (up to that point), but the library was too complicated and daunting to figure out, so you just took the bus back to where your mother was picking you up at. Another big difference between driving in the county and not in the city, is that 98% of bikers in the city bike because they have to get somewhere, whereas in the county 98% of bikers bike for enjoyment (stats do not include Chicanos). So, needless to say, having to start riding the bus after having never rode the bus, except once almost twenty years earlier (wow, it really was almost that long ago) can be as equally complicated and daunting as a giant library to a group of elementary kids, not to mention inconvenient, time consuming and bussin' it costs money y'all. (I understand that its not as expensive, and is much better for the environment than driving one's own car, but added up on top of the other rules of engagement involved (eg. dealing with, 'bus people,' always needing correct change, waiting for bus drivers while they're pulled over at Tim Horton's for a coffee break, etc.) - it just ain't worth it y'all (I'm imitating Ellen Degeneres here, not Britney Spears). No street signs or street paint would be chaotic. But if one doesn't drive one's own car, then one's own bike (or bike loaned from one's own girlfriend) can easily be rode on the sidewalk- safely peddling away from smoldering wreckage and street carnage. (Even though technically, its illegal to ride your bike on the sidewalk, I think.) No, it probably wouldn't be that bad. Commuters would just have to be very cautious and attentive as they drive super slow with their windows down peering for paths through unmarked intersections and single giant lane freeways. It would only make sense then, that elderly people will have to teach the new driving schools adapted for our new no single sign in sight society. Every new driver would have to learn sign language. In order to pass their driving test. A job. Yeah sure, but you can get used to that being gone rather quickly and jobs these days are so passe. I really can't think of anymore. I'm sure there's tonnes or maybe none. Everything I said earlier might not have made sense and/or was a complete waste of mine and all of yours, I mean your time. Ha. Who's to say what is important to... wait. Garbage men. Yes, Garbage men. When they're gone, you notice (and smell and kind of taste) and when they're not you don't - but should. If you don't believe me, I'll gladly accompany you on a lovely mid day downtown stroll as we gaze upon the ever growing stacked and steamin' alley "non-art" - as they would have called it in Europe in the sixties. It's a never ending larger scale showing of John and Yoko's, "people wriggling silently in the sack" exhibit, which for some reason, they loved so much and deemed effective (I'm not so sure though) in helping spread their message of peace and love. (Yes, I know, I've used a couple of John and Yoko references lately, but I'm reading his biography so, "Fuck off you cheeky bugger!") Yes. We miss things when they're gone, because we're human. And we don't notice and appreciate things when they're there, because we're human. And we have feelings, feelings that are a crazy thing, barely controllable at times and and other times unrecognizable as if experiencing them for the first time. Humans.

THE SOLUTION TO THE PROBLEM IS YOU

Most, if not all people do not like certain things about themselves and in most cases would change said things if possible. Usually these things are genetically induced and are totally beyond that person's control to change. However, I think that we should embrace our differences and recognize them as potential advantages. For example, I am bald. Not because I burned my hair off in a flamethrower accident, lost it from going through chemo, or always wear one of those fake plastic bald head gag pieces. No, I am bald because my Mother's father was bald. I didn't choose to be bald, baldness chose me ( like John chose Yoko, unfortunately [in my opinion]). But I've learned to deal with, accept and live my life as a helpless victim of male patterned baldness. There's nothing much else I can do aside from wearing a ridiculously looking toupee, which screams desperation and looks as equally obvious as the attempts to cover up. I could attempt to re-grow my dormant follicles with one of those mostly burning scalp hair rejuvenating products a la Rogaine, or shape a hideous and out-dated comb-over. But I won't. I can't. I shall not. Although I wear a hat, (which I sport as an accessory rather than out of embarrassment), I live a free and relatively happy life as a bald, white Canadian male. After so many years of it wearing thin, I don't see my lack of blond locks (now they'd probably be salt 'n pepper) as a problem, I see it as a solution. For starters, being bald is extremely economical. I haven't spent a penny on a haircut, bad dye job, gel, shampoo, conditioner, brushes, elastic rubber bands, hairspray, combs, blow dryers or scrunchies - since the late 90's. I reckon I've saved thousands upon thousands of dollars on hair-care-related products and subsequent expenses. Which in turn saves me from craving the 'cut of the day.' You know, the bob, fade, shag, hockey haircut, Jennifer Aniston and the all too annoyingly popular faux hawk. This gives the impression that I'm a leader and not a follower of fads, when in fact I have no choice and my only do is out of necessity. Not only do I save money and face, but I save on time as well. I cut hours a year off of my drying off after shower routine. I don't have to worry about having to constantly flip my hair out of my eyes when I'm cruising hard in a drop top on a windy day, nor when I'm serving an important point during an important tennis match. When I'm eating, the only hair that I will find in my spaghetti and meatballs will not be mine, which is good for deduction purposes but not good for grossness purposes. If I ever get carded at the liquor store, all I have to do is take off my hat. "Oh, I'm sorry sir...". I don't get dandruff, lice, split ends, gum stuck in my hair, dry scalp or ever mistaken for a girl. Which is great, because I'm a guy. Also, girls (the real ones) love the smooth, slippery scalp of the bald man. I've never seen a woman drawn to run her fingers through the scraggly, oily scruff of a long-haired, but I've enjoyed (on numerous occasions) the innocent petting of a woman. If I'm sweating and standing in the rain - you can't tell the difference between the sweat and rain. Also, if I'm hot and go out into the cold, thus exposing my lid to the elements, it will emit cool smoke-like vapors into the atmosphere (I'm not sure how this is a solution to a problem but it looks neat). However, probably the most important thing about being an almost thirty year old bald dude, is that I will not be tempted into looking like a desperately clinging to youth almost forty year old pony tail dude. I'm comfortable being Mr. Clean's doppelganger, and so should you, with whatever it is you dislike about yourself. There's an advantage to being the too tall woman, the bespeckled short guy with the limp or the bug-eyed big-eared freak. Don't be ashamed of being the overweight girl who talks too much, the hairy guy who sweats profusely or the one armed old lady with blue hair and a lazy eye. We must take back the power given to us at birth and use our differences to make differences in our own lives. If society gives you lemons, take them, and squeeze the sour, stingy juices back into society's eyes - and then laugh, because you have won.