It's barely the month of October. What the formula one chicken pox am I gonna be thinking when it's the month of February?

She's getting colder as fast as it is not getting warmer. The teeter's tottering big time, though not in favour of everyone's favourite German party dude - The King of Fun, Dr. Eddie Summerhotz III but rather, tipped, in a scary and unrelenting fashion, towards The Queen of Pain, Dejection, Despair and Depression - Her Royal and Henous Miss Frigidinia C. Wintershell, the evil and daunting daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Carol and Walter Wintershell. I can sense her majesty creeping, silently and dreadfully through the window and the dark, and feel a faint touch of her everywhere I go inside. The transportation of goods leave by way of the north west as the mighty winds cross the water and come to me. My small two bedroom apartment is old and fading. She shakes under the movement. Her brick is a facade, that might as well be inside here with me, as it's nothing more than a mere camouflage for daft and dodgy dipty doo whore mongering drafts. Like creating heat out of just a wall, paint, lights and air. It doesn't happen and neither will warmth tonight. She may never be able to fully fight the callous ways of Lady Cold. A draft is like an old mistress. No matter how far long gong she is, in life and in distance, she'll find you and always be just the faintest breath on your neck. She'll get in around the walls you've built to forget and defend her, a coldness lingering and flickering and retreating, only to return on the most frigid of 'eves.

FREAKIN' CYBORGS

Still sneezing, sniffling and a bit sick. But you know what's shittier than my present health? The present weather. But, what are you gonna do? Summer, or whatever it was called, has officially passed us by and all that is feared is swiftly on it's way. COLDNESS. BITTER. BONE CHILLING. COLDNESS. It is, after all, almost October for Jesus H. Christ's sake. My brain knocking theory is: If it's cold, wear a jacket. If it rains, wear some boots, or don an umbrella. Or stay inside. Or catch minnows. If it's windy, hold your ground, and if it's sunny cover your eyes, or go to the beach or if you are Oriental - don an umbrella. And if you have a cold. Fight it. Like everyone else. You know, cough a lot, take too much cough syrup and don't get enough sleep. I've never shared the same virus with so many of my closest friends before. It's like a chicken pox party for Windsor's finest has been thirty somethings. Anyways, with all the wet and colder weather, bare arms, excess sweat, a naturally warm body temperature, and a penchant for exiting without proper attire...what did I think was going to happen? Anyways, not only am I sick and tired of being sick and tired, but I'm also sick and tired (not the good sic) of stupid kids. Not kids as in a fun loving five year old, but those 'kids' who spend their entire time (and their parent's $ or future unpayable debt) in a University of Windsor class on Facebook, chatting about Facebook, pointing at Facebook on the laptop monitor, or pointing and laughing at a picture on Facebook. You get the drift. I have spoken a few times about my dislike for the 'book, (lack of privacy, forced friendships, overall weirdness) but since I can stay away from those problems (by not creating an account, ceremoniously checking, then attaching and replying and pointing and laughing and...) - my new problem is that of which I can't stay away from. See, I'm a 29 year old undergraduate who like's to sit in the back of the class, because I feel as if I am in more control of my potential learning destiny. No, I just feel more comfortable and at ease - mentally, physically and emotionally, in the back. So yes, maybe it does in some way allow for the permeation of potentially poignant points of information that would other wise be impossibly pervasive, yet still poignant - points of information. Hmmm. Yeah, maybe. But, on the other hand, maybe I would be a better student if I could touch the teacher's underarm sweat, hear them organize and shape their thoughts based on validity and experience - or at least see what's written on the gosh dang board. (I can usually see the board, just sometimes I wish the professor would push down a little harder). "That's what she said." (Just a stupid 'The Office' related joke). Anyways, what I wanted to say was that I don't want to know what your boyfriend's upper back tribal tattoo looks like (because I can see your IM pic from behind you and, what you're both writing) or, that the Care Bears (your wallpaper) are your all-time most favourite childhood cartoon characters, (though there is a time and a place for Care Bears, the classroom is not one of them), or that all you wrote on your Word doc during the whole hour and a half was "Robinson Crusoe" (I'm glad you're using your laptop to take notes like you told your parents you would when you explained why you really needed it for school). Also, why did you leave with ten minutes left in class? Huh? I don't get it. Did the curriculum bore you? Can you not hear the teacher? Did your super cool, comfortable and padded swivel chair squeak every time you nudged, or laughed or looked or spoke too loudly. Yes, it did. Though I'm not the best at math, the numbers just don't match up. Lastly, if you were in class but not really there in the first place, why did you come, in the first place? Because there are plenty of other places to go other than class, when you don't want to be there - and you won't distract easily distracted people like myself or interrupt the teacher with your giggling. And pointing. And clicking. And pretending to type notes when you're just instant messaging garbage. Like how about the bar. There is one right here at the school. How convenient. They have beer. And many outlets. Catch a breeze at the river or a flick at the cinema. Lose some more 'not your money' at the casino or the mall or a fast food joint. Home being stupid. Home eating food. Home sleeping. Not in this classroom. Not four feet in front of me. How do I know of all these fantastical places to go besides studiously working towards a future? Because, I've been there. I've done that, but not how you've done that. I've been you, The 'Out of highschool and Dazed Dummy' - though without the laptop, rude interruptions, and obscenely too many tagged pics of me looking into a camera. Except, I graciously took only myself out. It was a top-secret-solo-mission-one-man-take-down-himself-operation, and I triumphantly succeeded. Leave me out of your 18 year old on-line life or just leave. The classroom that is and my attention elsewhere. Drop out or unplug. Stay home or stay off-line. Take notes or take a really long washroom break. Like an hour and twenty minutes. Either one will do just fine. Like this one guy said on the radio the other day, the guy with the forced, coarse and sleazy Brooklyn sounding, "I'm outta breath and gonna die" talk show host voice, he said that kids today look exactly the same as when he was a kid. Except that everyone of them has something hanging, attached or hooked up to their brains like a freakin' cyborg. Other than that he said, they look the same.

STILL SNEEZING, STILL STROLLING, STILL SITTING. STILL SPITTING, STILL WRITING, STILL SWEATING, ONCE SHY, TWICE BITTEN

What a shitty, dark, cold, wet and windy, drizzly and grey late September almost October day. It's 6 pm all day long, even in the morning and moral falls as drastically and as fast as the brightness of the sun. It's the kind of day that you want no part of, like an itchy rash, a too forward and intoxicated pan handler, or a stupid, annoying cold that won't go away. I compare today with the latter. I've probably sneezed about nine hundred times in the last week, well over my usual average of thirty or so. Since the Romans, Greeks, you and me, sneezes have typically been thought of as preceding illness. I'm going on my gazillioninth gesundheit (German, meaning, "Health"). Bathousandth bud zdorov ("Be healthy Russian Children!") and eight hundredth Alhamdulillah (Arabic, "Praise God!"). No amounts of Sudafed, beer, foreign sayings for the blessing given after sneezing, or Kleenex can contain it. Sneezing ceases to be the least bit orgasmic when every other nostril inhalation initiates the pesky itch and inevitable conjuring and spewing of a string of at least three or more 'a chooos!' (I've never actually sneezed just once, which might add to the problem, you know - the headaches, sore abs, chipped teeth, loose eyeball, bloodshot eyeballs and back spasms. All the ailments that are sure to come with pinball fire fast forward face thrusts with a touch of the ancient arcade durability and lasting fun. It comes hitting hard, heavy and with speed. An unrelenting sneezing fit can actually ruin your day, your focus and your body's equilibrium. The human head can only take so many violent, spastic and without warning rapid shakes of the brain. Now that I think of it, 'a choo!' might be the most universally spoken word in the universe. As common as the dodo bird used to be before it went extinct is the word, as are the ailments of a severe sneeze strike. Coincidence? I think so, but I'm still going to write it. Back spasms, headaches and loose eyeballs. And a I've heard (or have I smelled it?) that a smell goes directly to the brain. Hmmm. Have I uncoincidenced you now? No, but I'm pretty sure that an 'a choo!' (the saying of the word) has no boundaries, sees no colours and effects all walks of life. Even Dolphins. Even Dinosaurs. Even extinct dinosaurs. Even those from Dubai. Dubains? Dubs? Even astronauts. Even dogs, mice and cats. 'Cause I've seen them. (cats that is, and I hope I'm nice to him in his dreams). If you have a functioning nose (enough hairs, olfactory epithelium, etc.) an audible voice box (not sure what an inaudible voice box does) and a sense of smell - you got yourself an 'a choo!' An Indian man 'a choos!' repeatedly when he uses too much curry in his punjabi, just as the Oriental teenager with the wacky haircut, white high tops and fluorescent pants politely 'a choos!'into my won ton while serving me Dim Sum. "Bai sui!", Chinese for, "may you live 100 years'. I'm pretty sure that an elderly black man's sneeze sounds like mine. Do accents affect an individuals' 'a choo!? Does a Torontonian's soft 'a' or a Detroiters's hard 'a' effortlessly and naturally find its way into their sneezing vocabulary? Or is it just - 'a choo'!? Is a southern 'a choo!' not an 'a choo!' at all but an "a choowl!?" The southern American English sneeze blows out smooth like smoky leather, seeping with a slow drawl, slower snot and, reminiscent of a hot day in Jawja, banjos, blues and African American Vernacular English because of their strong historical ties to the region. To me it's just 'a choo!' and it's driving me snots. I mean snuts. I mean nuts. Dang.

a tale of one idiot

Faithful followers
few and far between fans
I'll type something right now
with my left and right hands.
It will come from my head
Or likely something I've seen
And even just maybe
From a decipherable dream.
A bike ride, a long line or that guy over there
An anonymous list conjured right from this chair
I'll tell you just when maybe why even who,
But where I don't know, and how's any one's clue.
See, first comes the rant,
then the second course raves
After belligerence drinks
to nonsensical's ways
I'll top it all off
With some mumbo served high
On a warm jumbo sized
mumbo jumbo filled pie
I'll write this or that
About nothing and less
no reason to pick up
when there's never a guest
At Cynical Inn I know I reside,
but come on, this is the goddamn World Wide Web and there are hundreds of more interesting and exciting blogs about things and people with interesting and exciting stories based on their equally if not more interesting and exciting lives. If I were me, and I am I would not read my own blog. I would read the interesting and exciting ones. If I read blogs. Take that you. I mean me. I mean. Shit.

HELLO DAY! IT'S ME AGAIN!

So, today is Friday. And it looks to be a nice day outside, from inside here behind the window, blinds, walls and doors. I can tell because I can see people walking around without jackets, cutting their grass and repairing their cable. Plus the sun is a shining and the birds are a singing. I think I even heard an owl earlier. Peculiar an owl's hoot is. However, I myself have yet to venture out into this day, because I was awoken abruptly last night by my inability to breath. Yes, I am also still sick with a nagging cold, so my phlegm filled stomach and hacking cough didn't help matters much. And I had a headache. Guess what? In the middle of all this, I had to go number two. I'm sure my faithful readers out there don't really want or need to know about my bodily workings, but you have to understand the reasoning behind me gingerly entering the day. Between emptying my nose, spitting out bits of my insides and gasping for air - I was trying to find some sleep. It was hard, but it finally did come, and when it did, I embraced it and woke up late. Sorry day, but I'll be out in you in a bit.

ST-EEE-RIKE THREE! YOU'RE OUT!

I went bowling last night. At a bowling alley. With some friends. We got the shoes, the lanes, balls, beer, made up stupid names like Cock Sangwich and Tiger - and bowled. Five games. My thumb and pinkie finger are red and a tad numb this morning. Also, my thigh and part of my gluteus maximus ache. Oh well. One thing I've learned over the years is that bowling is not something I do very well, which is probably why I can count the number of times I've gone on one hand. Speaking of bowling and hands and not being good, my proposed theory on this inadequate inferiority of mine is that my hands are too small and my fingers are just too fat for the sport (or is it a game?) meaning, all the balls that are suitable for my pudgy digits seem too big and heavy. This may not really be the case and perhaps I'm just too weak to ever be good at this game (or is it a sport?) but that's the present theory I am sticking with. However, if you're partner is pretty good and you want to win - all you have to do is bowl over one hundred and you should pull out a tight victory over your opponents. I figured that out last night. That, and that my stroke (or is it a throw?) seems always to fade a little to the right. I think it's because of my fat fingers, sweaty hands and weakness of my entire overall body. My body is built to write, ride bikes and throw baseballs. Not launch a sixteen pound urethane ball down a slicked up wooden lane towards a cluster of plastic coated rock maple pins. You dig?

GUITARS, BURGERS AND HOMELESS MEN

Some things are just not worth doing. Like selling a guitar and amp for twenty bucks to a pawn shop. What do you have now? Not any decent and playable musical equipment, that's for sure. Three packs of smokes and a lighter? Gas for two days? Two meals at McDonald's and coffee for the week? You're willing to trade a life time of fun, possible innovation and impromptu jam-sessions for what? One tenth of your rent? A third of your phone bill? Forty-five minutes at the bar? Diddly fucking squat, that's what you got. You can't be that desperate for cash if you have the guitar and amp in the first place. Maybe if a homeless man stumbled across your Epiphone and Peavey Amp in a dirty alley or under a bridge he should sell it, because you know, he's starving. And his weathered and sun burnt fingers aren't suitable for nimble fret playing. His schzizophrenia isn't much help either. But not you, if you're in need of twenty five bucks, you're in need of much more than that, so trading something in that's worth plenty more than what you'll get for it in cash and fun - it's just not a good life transaction/investment on your part. And if you really do need the twenty five bucks because you're unemployed or broke or whathaveyou, then the guitar and amp could be a great time killer in between Kraft Dinner meals, daytime television and aimless walks around town. Who knows, maybe with a lot of practice you could become the next Joe Satriani, a bald headed, finger tapping virtuoso, who's on the cover of every other Guitar World magazine. Mind you, maybe you don't even play guitar or are looking to upgrade, or found the combo in a dead uncle's attic. If that's that case, maybe then should you consider getting rid of it. But, if you're looking for a quick buck, try getting a job. Or a line of credit. Or an inheritance. Or a lucky streak at the casino. Or a friend who will teach you pinch harmonics and hammer on's.

GOOD+GUY=GUY-BAD

So, I just watched the Ernie Davis story and I am feeling both very inspired and very sad. And since I can't sleep because watery snot is continuously dripping down my nose and into my mouth (mmm, it's sort of sweet, yet salty),I decided to write something on this blog type blog thing. Doesn't it just make sense, in the grand scheme of things that the optimistic, against all odds negro (I know I'm profiling, but I just watched the god dang movie for Christ's sake) running back dies of cancer before ever running a down for an NFL team, after a gritty and determined college career where he won the National Championship and Heisman with the Syracuse Orangemen. (Hopefully, if you plan on watching 'Express' you have stopped reading, so Mom, if you plan on watching the movie, stop reading now). The good guys always lose, even in goddamn movies and I can't take it anymore. Actually, it's not that big of a deal, but since I consider myself a semi-good person, I guess I should be worried, that is if I believe my own hyperbola. I mean hype, not an open curve with two branches; the intersection of a plane with both halves of a double cone. That is, unless I write a script, starring myself, directed by me, edited and marketed by yours truly with a personalized plot in which only I attain glory, power, wealth, health and a stealth bomber. You know you've truly made it when you're flying around in a 2.1 million dollar air craft with 80 500 pounds of GPS guided bombs at 972 km/h - and nobody knows. That's right, I'm cruising around in the B-2 spirit, not those racist lynching rednecks from Texas, or the drunk driver who crashed and killed his best friend. Nope. Not them. The good guys. Not the mother who drowns her three children and gets off on a technicality. Not Keyser Soze, Hannibal Lecter, or Saw. Nopers. Just plain old mister nice guy.

WHAT DOES STUPID HAVE IN COMMON WITH STUPID?

What's worse than being full out, down on your knees, is there a doctor in the house sick? Let's see, for one, the act of getting to that stage of sickness. You know, those first few days where you're not entirely sure if you're sneezing because of allergies or if you've inhaled a travelling virus. Is your throat sore because you left the window open a crack last night, or because of that damn pursuing, relentless cold? The common cold is at times, too common. Whereas common commonness allows for a sense of normality and understanding, this uncommon commonness makes me feel abnormal and I don't really understand why. Like, those first couple of days when the sickness seems it's most powerful but also too weak to fully take over your body. What's worse than this duality of bull shit cockamamie? Feeling like this with stupid things happening around you. Example 1. Like responding calmly and with genuine empathy and concern to a potentially seriously shitty situation, but, because of certain variables, thick heads and red anger are unable to do much but antagonize those who need the help most. For someone with such a sharp memory, it's curiously selective at times. One bad thing does not cancel out the other. This isn't pencil and paper math, it's live and let die life. Interest (shitty things) compounds until the hole (your sanity) overflows and seeps back into the ground (your life), which in turn forces you to make a decision. Do you dig a bigger, healthier hole or let the shit contaminate your life and those lives around you? Smells good, doesn't it? Example 2. Like a lot of reading to do for school. Yes, that too. But, not just regular readings about studies, findings, facts and theories, but mid 19th century fictional feminist speeches that are old, boring, sleep inducing and difficult to understand even when most alert. Bang bang! Example 2. Inconsiderate, needy, weirdo, prick neighbours slamming doors repeatedly and without thought for others around them - especially those attached to the same building (yes, we share a wall, plumbing, steps and the same lot) as their own. Big surprise there. How can you see what you're doing to other people when you're too stupid to see what you're doing to yourself and how stupid you look doing it. That would be one stupid looking and obese mirror. I don't care what you're doing (unless it's thoughtless and bothersome, even then I won't say anything) and you care about everything I do (which is insignificant and revealing). Speaking of needy and shall I say stupid (not their fault of course), but lonely dogs whining, crying and barking at trees, parked cars and for their neglectful owners attention do not make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like dogs should. How is a dog supposed to learn anything when their owners need more training than them, at being human? And they are humans (at least I think). Tell me, how? Do you know? They can't that's how. I know this because I know this now. I've learned some in the last few months. I've been living on the fringes of normality and decency, with no cable, a front row seat by an open window and an unwanted, personally delivered invitation to join in the madness. No. Count me out please. Turn down the Hotel California (for my sake) put down the dogs (for their own sake), get yourself a very cheap but good lawyer(for your own sake), and move the fuck out of town (for every one's sake). Or out of Ontario (for Ontario's sake). Please. I'm feeling a little under the weather here and could use some rest (for fuck's sake).

LIKE I SAID, EVERYONE WAS OUT

Today was an extra nice day and I acknowledged that fact by going on two separate but equally enjoyable bike rides - one in the late morning and one in the early evening. It was one of those mid September days that, even though the sun is still warm enough to make you sweat, you can feel autumn's faint bite in the air, and you can't help but wish that you could bottle up the warm breeze and green grass, seal it with a smile and save it for a murderous mid February morning. Crisp, clean and cool enough to refresh but plenty warm still. A perfect day for two bike rides. And a Jesus parade and free Jesus concert. And an impressive Quebecois army vessel docked at Dieppe Gardens offering free tours to the public. And for banana boats, yachts and jet skis to equally impress on the Detroit River. And for people out enjoying perhaps one of the last spectacular summer-like days of the year. Everyone was down by the river today. I mean everyone. The University dudes with the big wobbly stupid looking skateboards. The University chicks running, rollerblading, biking, walking or sitting and reading on obscure benches or patches of grass. The older gentlemen in better shape than I. The older gentlemen in the same or worst shape than I. And the older gentlemen sitting on a bench looking at the seagulls. I also ran into a few dirtball couples pushing baby carriages. And the fit eastern European Mom with her fit daughter discussing school, work or the homeland. Pacing and animated at the waters edge, I saw a group of fast talking, nervous looking middle easterners, who were involved in a lengthy discussion and with great emotion, probably about a cousin or the business or something crazy. Or, perhaps just the price of a barrel of crude oil ($69.12, as of today). I saw that guy with the elongated 'Dieppe Gardens Tour' golf cart again, except this time he was actually giving a tour and not just leaning up against his broken down cart, looking desperate, pathetic and confused about more than just the economy. Good for you guy! Not to mention the African guy with the gangster hat who enjoys no handed zig zaggin' - criss crossin'- bobbin' and weavin' on his old ass red ten speed. (We came to a cross roads once, when he bobbed and I tried to anticipate the weave but then he zigged before I could zag and we almost crashed head on, but then he laughed and said 'Sorry' and I said, 'I didn't know which way you were going man,' - and that was it). Yup, I saw that guy. Uh, I saw some super fat people just getting outside, some normal fat people trying to get in shape and some normal healthy people exercising who might have at one time been super or normal fat. I saw middle aged women in business type bank teller clothes gossiping and walking during break or lunch in white tennis shoes. I saw many Asian, Hispanic, Black, some white Windsorites, but mostly immigrant fisherman along the riverfront. I had to avoid the bicycle gang of early twenties nerd misfits who were chatting noisily, and childishly obnoxious about the female jogger they had just past and who had surely avoided them with tremendous ease. I saw a few old school degenerate Windsorites wasting the day away by the river. There was the couple from Detroit strolling slowly along, no doubt enjoying the view of the their sky line from the safety of our side of the river. A few cops on bikes, cops in training and sailors from the military vessel. I saw many dogs, plenty of kids and a younger yuppy couple walking their Himalayan cats on leashes. Interesting. And then there was me. Like I said, everyone was out.

PRICKS POLLEN & PRICKS

So, a few weeks back I got stung by a bee. A son of bitch, reckless and bothersome yellow jacket. Now, I understand that bees are an integral part of our planet's ecosystem-a-bob with the honey and such, (actually, the yellow jacket, that of the genera Vespula and Dolichovespula are important predators of pest insects), but c'mon man, I was just chillin' outside in the sun, looking into the sky, minding my own damn business. Talk about pests. Geez. What did I do to you? Do I look like a pretty piece of pollen? (Actually, that's the honey bee, the only extant (non-extinct) member of the Apini tribe, and they only sting in defense of the hive - after alarmed bees release a pheromone that stimulates the attack response in other bees). On the other hand, yellow jackets (or 'yellow jacket wearing pricks' as I like to call them), who sting are female, as the male dies shortly after mating. It's these bitch bees or the social hunters who collect the food (mostly carbs and sugars) for the queen. Ok, so do I look like an apple, nectar or tree pollen? Settle down you man eating vampire. I only eat honey from jars, usually on toast with some peanut butter. That shit's the bees knees. (Once again, it's the honey bee who produces honey and the yellow jacket who annoys the hell out of you and scatters the picnic). Mind you, when I got attacked, I was in a high danger area under severe bright yellow alert, but it was the cowardly and cunning way in which the bee or wasp as they are sometimes referred to, silently and secretly crept up behind me - that really stings me. Pun intended. Right above the elbow on the inside of the arm. Ouch. They always get you in the most vulnerable of areas because they're dicks. Inside your shorts or shirt sleeve when your sitting at lunch, or on the toe through the bottom of the boardwalk at Point Pelee (thanks for that one Brian) That's why they're dicks. Like that goof in high school who bagged you in front of everyone in the hallway. Yeah, just like that. The pain immediately following the sting was intense, the venom filled lance puncturing and lodging into my upper inner arm, pumping me full of allergic inducing bee shit. For minutes after I was sure the bee was still somewhere in my clothes, even when I saw it sitting motionless and dying (actually, the female honey bee dies, but the yellow jacket can sting repeatedly) on the top of the short fence. So, thinking the bee could still possibly be stabbing my flesh with his little barb-wire weapon, I ran into the house, took off all my clothes and did a thorough inspection. It was gone, but it was not forgotten. The skin around the tiny invisible puncture hole was a weird pale white colour, not the flesh burning red you expect from a wound. It was weird because after the initial sting the flash of pain steadily subsided, now I know, because my body went numb trying to decide what to do about the injection. I felt little pain for the rest of the day and there was no swelling. It felt as if I got a little prick from a sneaky runaway nurse with a needle in her hand and surprise injections on her mind. Boy was I wrong. The next day and the days to follow were excruciating and bothersome. Swelling and redness of the entire back of my left arm, from the top of my wrist all the way to my armpit was followed immediately by dry and itchy, and let me stress, 'itchy' skin. I was feeling it now. I was not immune to the bee as first thought and my now semi-severe allergic reaction was all the proof I needed. My arm was twice the size of the other (thank god I ditched the sleeves)which would have been fine in a one armed flexing contest, but for my purposes, it was a pain in the ass. I now thought back to the last time I got stung. At least fifteen years ago out back by the dumpster when I worked at the grocery store in Kingsville. A decade and a half of venom free living - down the drain. I've heard a few different theories as to why there are so many more bees, or at least stinging bees this summer (weather change, excess garbage, the economy), but I'm not sure what to believe. Am I just sweeter than most, my sweaty, smooth and glistening flesh impossible to resist? No doubt the 'no sleeves' and tear offs leave me vulnerable and willing. Are my flashy black clothes and animal tattoos a turn on for the female yellow jacket, her lust for injection matched only by my attractive attire. No, probably not. They're just 'bee'ing pricks who like to ruin days. 'Bee' on your way, go find a bug or a plant please, and leave the prick being to us humans.

THINGS I DON'T EVER WANT BUT SEE OFTEN ENOUGHT TO MAKE ME THINK OF THEM AND WRITE DOWN IN A LIST

Bad two car accidents. Cute girls dating dirtballs. Disgusting, exposed and hanging under bellies. Middle aged drunks on electric bicycles. Teens with babies. Babies with faux hawks. Faux Hawks. Destinations thwarted by large, slow moving lines. Stray, malnourished cats. A class with 8 required books to read. A class with 'invigorating discussion' as a grading tool. A large, warm class with the only available seats at the front. Over-extended and over-used trends. Motorized vehicles on pedestrian pathways. Sludge, Slime, Smut, Smog, Skanks, Screams, Scraps, Streetwalkers, Scum, Strikes, Sirens, Suicides, and Stupidity. Ignorant, violent and oblivious pet owners.

EARLY MORNING CRASH ON 911 NONETHELESS

As I drove swiftly to school this early Friday morning, on my way to purchase a few obscenely overpriced textbooks I might not even use, I came upon a car accident. Just one block from the school, on Wyandotte, a white car had smashed head on and hard into the side of an SUV. It looked fairly serious as the front of the car was obliterated and people were all around trying to help the two injured passengers still in the vehicle. It was a fresh accident, maybe no more than 5 minutes old and I wasn't sure what I should do. Should I stop and help? Should I go get more help or should I continue on to the bookstore because I was expecting long lines? A biker beside and a little ahead of me, quite possibly on the same mission as I, leapt off his bike and ran to the car - a quick thinker and obvious better civilian than I. With reckless abandonment and hopefully some sort of medical background, the cycling Samaritan burst on to the scene. There were already 10-15 people huddled around and poking into the car, applying soothing notions and hopes of sincerity and reassurance for the unmovable victims still inside. Was I really needed? Or would my presence simply confuse, embarrass and ultimately 'not help' the ones needing just that. In the distance a police cruiser and ambulance were quickly approaching and I decided I would leave this to the professionals. I sure as hell am not trained in anything remotely life saving or even life helping. I'm not religious and would not have been able to offer any comfort from the word. I am a nice enough person, one who often holds open doors and nods to strangers, but I ain't no saviour - I don't even know how to administer CPR, let alone operate a jaws of life. Me getting out of the way is just as good, if not better as that guy who got in the way. I'm not saying one approach to helping is better than the other, but I just had to think on my feet, well on my wheels - and that's what I came up with. As I cruised back home with my book and a coffee, the paramedics and police were in total control of the situation and the injured, wearing neck braces, were being wheeled off on stretchers. I sincerely hope they will be alright, and I'm sure they will be thanks to the quick thinking of those first on the scene. Mind you, if I had been there sooner, I would definitely had done something. But me doing nothing was actually the most I could do. Or was it?

CONTAIN CONTAIN CONTAIN

Why is it that a super fat guy, you know the one with the humongous disgusting belly roll of flab spilling out of from under his shirt, insists on wearing a super duper extra huge shirt that, no matter how insanely big it is, does not and will never contain the excess cargo of skin and blob hanging freely and for all to see and ultimately wish they hadn't? Seriously, tuck that mess in or something, cause that shit ain't right. It doesn't even look human. Or is that another human trying to escape from inside your wobbly mass? A natural disaster caused by unnatural eating habits, lack of exercise, genes, greasy anything, cheese burgers, whatever the excuse, it's just not something I should be forced to see - unless I want to and I don't think I do anytime soon. (Although, Randy from the Trailer Park Boys does not offend me). No offense to all the gigantores out there and their sexy exposed midriffs. Contain, contain, contain! I don't know, use some industrial sized paper clips, or a skipping rope attached to another skipping rope with a winch of some sort to safely fasten the over-sized cargo. Perhaps an old abandoned strip of blown rubber from the side of the road can act as a makeshift monster sized elastic band belt contraption mah-jig-a-mee-hoo. One more spare tire can't hurt and it actually might keep your hanging gut from hell from slapping off the pavement and tripping me as I ride by. And when you fall from fatigue or a heart attack, or by slipping on the grease dripping from that drumstick frying in your pocket - the tire may actually prevent the sidewalk from caving in. And the slow, shifting and shaking of the panting waddle doesn't decrease the grossness any. Don't take this the wrong way, I have nothing against overweight, chubby, rolly-polly porkers, seeing that I'm not the skinniest human being ever, it's just that you got to try a little harder to keep the cows on the farm, if you know what i mean. Do it for the kids. Do it because it's fashionable and trendy. No, do it because it's just not fair to other people with eyes. And a weak stomach. I stare because I have no choice. Give me my choice back, please.

DO OVER TIME

New school year. Yes, I'm still in school. But the end is near. How many people do you know have a diploma and a degree? That's what I thought. Anyways, with a new term brings new faces, new shoes and new hopes for a better future. Fast gone are the memories of last semester's failures and depressions, replaced with 'now's' latest fashions - the year's biggest and most extravagant do over. Fall Classes. Sure, many new students are just that, new students fresh from grade 12, wide eyed and brimming with dumbfounded confidence and a longing to succeed for the folks - but many are not. Like me. Like you. Like us. How appropriate that this birth of new happenings occurs around autumn. Let's shed last season's colours for some fresh sights and sounds. Greens, blues and pinks for browns, yellows and reds. Warmth for vibrancy. Boringness for business. Summer for School. Strip the trees of too low marks and sprinkle a sparkling coat of white A's and/or high B's. It's getting colder out and hence most would rather be inside a building (eg. school) reading a book instead of outside walking through their own breath. Water skiing, frisbeeing, and laying around in the hot sun are not as fun if it's freezing outside, your friends are all gone and your wearing pants.

OOZIES, TWEETS, WAVES & PONCH

Writing blogs. One thing I do (sometimes) that I don't have to do (ever) and that nobody really knows about (or even cares if they do, no offense Mom). Whether I start, stop, slow down or hastily change directions will not change anyone's life. Not drastically anyways. Not subconsciously anyways, and not in any way, anyways. Normal, everyday sifting society, will never be made aware of my pleasantries and semi-serious off the cuff attempts at inherently funny words or needle nardle noo, goon show whathaveyous. Well, at least the Tigers are in first place. Anyways, unless I am a society hating/sex deprived early twenties drop out with a known to only others like me blog, one which, and in intricate detail may I add, outlines my two year maniacal plan to mow down a school because everyone hated me when I went there four years ago. Because, then the feds would be all over my blog. And probably a few copy-cats, weirdos and just plain 'different' people. Who knows, maybe A&E will use the blog as a cutaway on some A to Z Guide to crazy, lonely and misunderstood suicidal gunmen. That's the only way to get national attention with a one of these. And you also may have to dress like a vampire and hate the world. And always talk about guns and bullets and shooting stuff and other whatnot's of pure evil. You might even have a few loaded oozies you bought off of EBay in your basement. So, my point being, since I am not this aforementioned person or anything like that (eg. ranting hate monger with followers of hate and mongering, or outlandish right or left wing big mouth with a serious case of single minded tunnel vision, etc.), nor are the fuzz techs busily deconstructing my thoughts looking for patterns to help understand the downward spiral of a psycho path - Uhh, he's got an arsenal in the basement and enough rounds to take out a few scenes worth of zombies in a zombie movie. The evidence is right there Ponch, it's labelled "Psycho" in the "Duhh?" section in the drawers next to all the warning signs and flashing lights. What I'm really saying is, what other things do we do that we don't really have to do but do anyways even though, really, nobody knows about or cares to no about what we have done, really? Let's see. Blogs. Yes, good one. Uhhh, Tweets. Yes. Those. I have never personally or physically seen what, or been on or administered a tweet, nor have I tweeted on or sat close to a tweeter page. I don't even know what a tweet sounds like. I'd assume something similar to a bird, but I can't be sure. And I have a blog. Unless of course you are a psycho or are planning to be a psycho or are planning on having sex with someone famous and writing daily about it. Or a radically inclined nut ball radio host with an axe to grind with an opposing caucus. Yes, we've gone through this. Myspace, Facebook, blah blah, hoo-ey crap shit doo-ey. What's the new thing gonna be? I know. I see the trends. I can read the waves and valleys. The scribbly lines and hap hazard charts tell me something. Something quick, painless, and very public but also very private - unless you have a lot of friends. An implant or perhaps just some way advanced programming that reads our secrets and transmits them invisibility and with such tremendous speed that the Internet becomes obsolete and frowned upon. I will call this brand new massively invasive and addictive monster - WE. *Not the Nintendo Wi, but We as in there can be no more you and I or me because plurality has replaced our individuality just as public has invaded our privacy and innocence. There probably already is something out there in the net, something amazing and new and different, scooping up subscribers, advertisers, hackers and spamsters galore, and well on its way to being bought up by Google. I'm just an out of touch in more ways than one sometimes bloggstir with no pot (to stir), cable (to access) or a way to move (besides my legs). However, Myspace and Facebook are good avenues for exposure if you 1) trash someone, in the public sphere of real-time personal pages, or 2) are trashed in someones tagged picture, because, we all know that Mom's, employer's and jealous boyfriend's can't resist the trash pics, you know the one where your drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette at the same time - passed out. Or are trash. The dump isn't the only place where trash sells for cash. Think about it.

BURN OUT EYES BEFORE READING

So Bill's got a blog and Paris has one and Perez has one so does John McEnroe, John Madden, Jon Stewart, John Daley, John Deere's great grandson David and Johnny 'Rotten' Lydon (former vocalist/ranter/raver/lunatic of the Sex Pistols and now the same but older and slower for the just re-united after 17 years groundbreaking band of the 80's, Public Image Ltd., who go by the anti-establishment, post-punk like attitude acronym - PiL. **I'm not that big on punk rock or the attitude (except the drinking part maybe, and when the government penalizes me at tax time I get rather moody), but I happened to read about it in a Windsor Star side bar and something else about Dan Cloutier coming back to the Wings even though he has been out of the game for almost two years and is terrible, and a nine foot python some guy in Northern Australia found chilling in his commode. I think that's what they call toilets over there. Maybe they call them John's but with the accent it would sound more like Jan's. I sure don't know any Australian's with the name Jan. Or any Australians at all, mate. But, them, you, me mates and Jan aren't the only ones comically and endearingly or sloppily and with bad grammar force feeding our inner most deepest personal musings and ideas to the world for them not to give a shit about. Or even know or care that we exist. Why read Bill from Nipissing's boring ass fishing blog he updates every two months because of his anciently slow dial up modem (yes, I'm aware that the word piss and pissing are both in the name of this small Northern Ontario village, best known for it being located in the district of Perry Sound - which is where Bobby Orr was born, so really, they got nothing up there but fish, snow, trees, and liquor stores that open at nine a.m.),when you can read about Sir Robert Pattison's most recent and agonizing "Which hot young starlet do I bang today?" dilemma? The choice is easy. R-Patz all the way. I'll take Eminem's retaliation on his blog to Mariah Carey's mockery of him in a video over Maria Quimby from Buttesville, Oregon (I know, ha ha) going on about knitting and church and frost and her arthritis. I don't really care and neither do you about those other useless jokes filling up valuable though endless (I think?) virtual storage, when I could read the very words that one of the Kardashians' typed, with their own two hands, in their own two words about their own stupid problems in their very tough life as celebu-reali-whore-bags. I want to know why Jennifer Aniston can't keep a man, or how Lamar Odom somehow gets women. He's tall and has a lot of money. Hmmm. No, still don't understand. Actually I do. He must be really funny. Anyways, like I was saying, unless I already know you, from tv that is, then I don't want to know you. The real you that is. But you can still read my blog Mom and Katie. K-Pac out.