Bring on the terrible teens

And here we are.

We managed to survive the non-apocalypse and must face yet another tortured year on this botched science experiment. And what's more: that thing they wrote about in Popular Science ("The Future") is no longer a distant prospect like the barely perceptible whistle of a train; it surrounds us like rising floodwater, dampening our strides and threatening to void the air in our lungs. The train is in the station, and it's going to murder us all.

Clearly the wet and salty coast has permeated my bones and my brains. I am so close to the Pacific but ironically anything but clear. I am like a stranded man bobbing in a lifeboat holding a megaphone, watching the rippling waves and wondering precisely how long until I am rescued.

My resolution for next year is fairly simple. I have stolen it wholesale from the mouth of Alexandra Stoddard:

Slow
Down
Calm
Down
Don't
Worry
Don't
Hurry
Trust The
Process

I will pretend this weblog has relevance and I will write. I will pretend that I am cared for by people and I will take care myself. I will pretend that this ominous Future will succeed in forcing our mouths to the sky and gurgling us all into non-existence; and that I might as well have another cocktail. I will write, I will care, and I will pretend, though probably not in that order.

I will also try to eat less bread and dairy. That stuff will kill you.

Reasons for committing suicide

Sometimes you got it. But you definitely don't. For that extra push, please consider these reasons for doing the right thing:

• Kicked out of Tommy Lasorda fan club
• Only talent: folding fitted sheets
• Wore bowling shoes home
• Caught mid-air-guitar
• Shouted "anal beads" really loudly in restaurant
• You can only parallel park
• Misspelled every word in your offensive tattoo
• Could only afford pre-owned discount anal beads and admitted it loudly in a restaurant
• Broke the first rule of Fight Club
• Not a thing to wear
• One quarter short for the dryer
• You hate your goddamn worthless fucking life
• Spent all your savings on pre-Mayan apocalypse debauchery
• Bored

The window is to your left.

Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of electronic music,

I've had just about enough of your squeaks and squeals, your grinding bass, your thumping and testicle shattering bass, all of it. Give it a goddamn rest. I know, I know, you're really clever with that laptop of yours and you look badass in a pair of headphones, but I don't give a rusty fuck. I'm trying to get some reading done here.

There is a time and place for that kind of "music"; namely cavernous warehouses or hangars on the outskirts of town. So baffling is the experience of this artform, drug use is basically mandatory. Who could listen to dubstep sober? Why would you?

But now I endure this cacophony even as I sit down to the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle (I do that shit with pen, fuckers) in the comfort of my own home. It so happens that my neighbours are people with devastatingly, heart-achingly, terrible taste in music. I shall carbon copy them on this note, and remit a third carbon copy to God (In the remote hope that he empathizes and makes all your heads explode in a messy fell swoop. He might recall that he owes me).

Signed an old fogey,


Harvey

Animal fuckability

It can be really, really hard talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: So I called up the ASPCA the other day.

Harvey: I already hate where this is going.

Darryl: And I innocently say: "I'm looking for your most fuckable puppies."

Harvey: How could you possibly say that innocently?

Darryl: And you know what they did?

Harvey: I assume they freaked out...

Darryl: They freaked out!

Harvey: Imagine that.

Darryl: I mean, I don't necessarily want to fuck the puppies.

Harvey: But clearly it's on your mind.

Darryl: Fair enough, but until I penetrate--

Harvey: Darryl, please.

Darryl: Fine. But what I really wanna know is, do they have a metric by which to assess the fuckability of their animals? I seriously doubt it.

Harvey: I gotta go.

Words I hate

I'm assuming the male equivalent of a seamstress is a "seamster." This is a leap of logic to be sure (and certainly wrong) but let me roll with this and declare for the Official Record that I hate this word. A seamster is just a softened Teamster, and I already hate those fucks.

Steamster is just a gayer version of same. I don't know what a steamstress does.

Observational humour about patently false things

I can't believe that they're still chopping Filipino babies in two. I mean, I get it. We need more Filipinos, but aren't there enough Asians already? There isn't enough lumpia! What's the deal?

Now I love getting popcorn at the movies, but occasionally I'll be on a date and we'll get to that awkward point of whether or not to get butter on it. Right? Because we all know that it's not really butter, but hot oily horse ejaculate. Talk about awkward. I never really know what to do at this point. I mean, if this girl is so willing to eat popcorn slathered in horse cum — on the first date — you gotta ask yourself: what's Thanksgiving going to be like? This is why I always go for Sour Kids.

I think the problem with most classical music isn't that it's boring: it's the risk of being gored during the performances. Do they really need to release a live, rabid bull into the concert hall? What is this, 1856? Yeah, I appreciate an authentic rendition of the Brandenburg Concerto as much as the next guy, but I'd rather keep my spleen unpunctured. Thaaaaanks.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: If you could send one thing up into space, what would it be?
Miranda: Nothing.
Harvey: But whatever you send, if discovered by a superior alien race, would serve to represent all of humanity. Don't you see? This is important!
Miranda: Fine, I'd send you up there.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: (choking back tears) I'm flattered.
Miranda: Please don't be.

The things that I hate

I took an improv class once.

On our very first day we had to stand up in front of everyone and rattle of a list of things we loved. The seated students were meant to cheer, loudly, in hearty approbation of the presenting student's list of loves. An accountant stood up and informed the class excitedly that she loved her border collie, and the class became giddy. A social worker awkwardly revealed that he loved beer. The other students roared, and bolstered, the man shared that he loved TV dinners, and the Toronto Maple Leafs, and AC/DC, and weddings, and snowboarding, redheads, Mountain Dew, fuzzy slippers and martinis. The other students went nuts.

I found the exercise difficult. I would have preferred instead to be asked to recite a list of things I hated instead. I wouldn't consider myself a hater necessarily, it's just that those feelings are just more accessible to me. If my mind had a desk, the things that I hate would sit in the top drawer.

"My feelings," I would start. "I hate my feelings and the voices in my head. The voices that insist and prattle and fill my veins with doubt. I also hate sharp cheddar and the taste of envelope glue. I hate obligation and thus I hate the fabric of most social interactions. I hate that my default mode is a combination of guilt and passive-aggression and fear. I hate grippy socks, and fingerless gloves, and I hate when people talk about cars or sports or music that I have not heard of. I hate my shriveled attention span and the cold, oh, how I hate the fucking cold. I hate the ocean and I hate the sound of the oboe. I hate snowboarding, and redheads, Mountain Dew, fuzzy slippers and martinis.

"I hate my proclivity to buy books that I will not read, and I hate when people walk four abreast on sidewalks and then slow to a crawl for seemingly no reason. I hate the practice of dentistry.

"I hate my most interesting acquaintances for they are the most selfish and demanding, but I hate the rest of my acquaintances also. I hate having to consider and empathize and sympathize and acknowledge other minds, and feeling this way, I hate my own selfishness, my thoughts, my hypocrisy, and thus, myself.

"Oh, and though I haven't quite made up my mind on the subject, I am sure I hate the cosmos too."

And at this point the class would look at each other bemused, and Ted, our instructor would surely lead us in another game of zip, zap, zop.

Wild speculation

On the invention of coincidence:

Bib: Could you imagine if two people had the same idea at the same time?
Bub: I was just thinking that!

Verby day

I am writing this missive on the evening of 28 October 2012. A passable Sunday. Here's what I did in order:

1. ate scrambled eggs and bacon
2. sat on the bus for exactly one hour and 
3. read The Atlantic
4. bought groceries at the supermarket
5. placed clothes in a washing machine
6. cooked up a storm
7. nibbled on a medicinal marijuana chocolate bar
8. removed clothes from a washing machine
9. listened a supremely moving podcast
10. ironed shirts
11. saw Giants fans celebrating
12. washed dishes
13. lay in bed
14. typed out words

In order words, I'm pretty high right now. Thanks for reading. 

Real letters from real geeks

Dearest munchers of kale,

I've had just about enough of the Vegan Agenda pervading all aspects of civilized life. Just yesterday I bore witness to something so horrifying I could have snapped a vegan's neck in two and sucked the marrow from her bones like a zombie crazed by bloodlust. A carton of vegan eggnog.

Have we all lost our minds? For too long I have personally tolerated the choices vegans make as a quaint (but laughable) dietary choice. Sure, not everyone has to enjoy meat, or cheese, or eggs. (Honey offends you too? OK, whatever.) But when you concoct alternatives to decidedly unvegan things like eggnog, I have to speak up.

Because —you lactarded grass-eating fucks— eggnog is not for you. Not for you! Eggnog is not vegan. It doesn't just contain dairy and egg, it is dairy and egg. That's the essence of the product, like dead animals are the essence of meat, or being perpetually cranky and having a holier-than-thou attitude is the essence of being a vegan. It's a decadent fucking beverage for people who love life, not self-hating imbibers of green smoothies.

One of the things you give up when you become a vegan (besides all of my respect) is eggnog. You don't get to drink it, because it's not a vegan beverage.

Now, before you say in your shrill, malnourished tones: "but eggnog is delicious and we would like to partake," I must preempt and say, "Go fuck yourself." I know eggnog is yummy. It's made of sugar and eggs and cream: amazing fucking things that you have chosen to eschew. You want to get in on the action by making a non-dairy, non-egg version of a dairy and egg drink? That's offensive. That's worse than drinking non-alcoholic beer; that's like drinking grape-free wine. It's almost spiteful in its idiocy.

Live with your goddamn stupid choice, and leave the eggnog to grownups. You can't eat your walnut-based-gluten-free-stevia-sweetened cake and have it too you fucking clods.

Go to Hell and happy holidays,

Harvey

Wild speculation

On the creation of doorknobs:

Marcus: And there you are. You shall now have privacy in your chambers.
Selene: I am most grateful. How does it work?
Marcus: You simply press the door closed like so. (Click)
Selene:
Marcus:
Selene: And how do you open it?
Marcus: Fuck.

Religion reform #24

The Book Of The Toucan is filled with lots of fucked up lists. The Toucan is particularly weird about his proclivity for ordered lists. From a section called "What Frosts The Toucan's Cupcakes":

30. Put no Gods before me. Or after me. In fact, try not to think about other Gods.

31. Readeth not borrowed books when on the toilet.

32. An umbrella is a privilege not a right.

33. You and me do not equal the world.

34. I can see you when you jerk off, so stop making that stupid face.

And so on, and so on.

Real letters by real geeks

Dear President Obama,

Congratulations on securing a second term as the president of the weirdest fucking country on the planet not counting the Philippines or Japan. Actually China is pretty weird too. Not to mention Australia and New Zealand; those two are completely fucked up. I suppose I should also include Guinea-Bissau, but then I would have to mention a host of equally shitty African countries. Let me stop there.

So good luck. America hasn't been the since country since I was first told about it about two and a half decades ago. Back then America was mostly interested in hairspray and soft drinks and Ronald Reagan. Now in 2012, hairspray has been replaced by a divisive vitriolic brand of politics, soft drinks remain soft drinks, and Ronald Reagan is now you. So don't fuck this up.

Not that you need any more pressure, but it's important that you do (whatever it is that you do) stronger, faster, better and harder than you ever have before. Be sure never to mention those words in that order in public.

But seriously, sucks about the gig. I can't imagine you'd prefer the stress of being president when you can write a book instead and make appearance fees for walking into the auditoriums of the highly-willing-to-pay and watch your country crumble around you. It's not too shabby.

So in short, good fucking luck. You're going to need it.

Harvey

Crossing the line

Dear reader(s),

I'm actually kind of excited about this news, though I shouldn't be. The act of Not Writing is nothing to be proud of, and barely producing more posts this year than the worst year of content on this site (2006) is certainly nothing to brag about. But I am doing precisely that. I have written more than thirty posts. This year will not be my worst year. Hoo. Fucking. Ray!

That said my goal is more than that paltry number. Something over fifty-two posts per calendar year suggests that I think about this blog on the regular, and I won't shun it so easily for other pursuits like drinking and fucking. Writing over a hundred posts would reveal my designs on being a writer; writing over three hundred would mean I actually am one.

Which is to say: I may have failed, but I did not colossally fail. When historians look back upon this weblog (unlikely) and note my periods of high and low activity, they will not say: "twenty-twelve was the worst." They might say that "it was the second worst" or that it was "pretty bad" or something altogether negative, but they cannot assign superlatives like "worst," "least," "most pathetic" or "most impotent," etc.

Well, I suppose they can, but what I'm saying is: I've crossed the line. The line that failing students rely on when calculating what's the lowest grade that will still net them a course credit. It's the same line burnouts teeter upon when being drug tested at work. It's showing up to work minutes before your boss, or texting your wife from your mistress's apartment to wish her happy birthday.

But I have officially crossed that line. Thanks for reading.

Harvey

Desktop calendar

Dear Martin,

As I write this there are three-hundred and fifty-one published posts on Slomosu. I too am surprised. Considering how infrequently I update this site, you'd think I just crossed twenty. Yes, I know this is a sore spot for you but I like to antagonize you, Martin. For example, I've referred to your name two times in this letter, and I know you hate that. I also know that you hate when I spell out numbers and I have done that already five times. And I'm just getting started. Fuck you two.

But I digress. Three-hundred and fifty-one is a fairly significant number. And as I'm sure you no doubt have already realised, just fourteen short of a calendar year.

If I was telling you this in person, it would probably go:

HARVEY (shouting):

...just fourteen short of a calendar year.

MARTIN (confused):

What?

HARVEY:

A fortnight, Martin! A fortnight! Doncha see?

MARTIN:

Why you knucklehead...

Or something like that, which should make crystal clear why I'm writing this letter instead. But this letter is obviously a waste of cyber ink. You're so intuitive and wise and judgment free and you love electronic music — see, I know things about you Martin (four things to be exact) — you have no doubt already considered and developed the idea I'm about to proffer, namely, that you should publish a one a day calendar of all my posts. Imagine waking up one May the seventh to find:

Words I hate

 The term, "wobbly pops."

And then I can quit. Please let me fucking quit.

Yours always,

Harvey

Exuberance would be purple, I think

I'm not really sure how to spell the word halloween. I've seen it spelled "hall-o-ween"and "hallowe'en" and "all hallow's eve" but I'm not really sure what the crucial differences are between these. It's not a holiday I ever celebrated with much gusto. Even as a child, I spent more years doling out candy than soliciting for it door-to-door. Begging isn't my scene: I prefer to evaluate people and watch television.

That, and I'm very picky about costumes. This is a day where one can be anything they want (my emphasis), so to don oneself in a Dollar store mask is not just unseemly, it's a tremendous waste of an opportunity. ("Gypsy" is a pretty lame costume idea also.)

Here's a few ideas I've been kicking around. This h'allowe-en, feel free to go as:

• CareBear™ that doesn't give a fuck
• The answer to the sphinx's riddle
• Hitler wearing a yarmulke
• 4" dildo (not to scale)
• Hot dog enthusiast
• Guy with cancer and AIDS and a headache
• Sundog
• The laughter of a young child
• Chinaman from the future
• Ku Klux Klam
• Procrastination
• The answer to a multiple choice question
• Natural causes
• Irish potato famine
• Obesity scare personified
• Frank discussion
• Part one of four
• Exuberance
• Flood insurance
• Unblemished record
• World Promise Keeping Champion
• Tired of listening
• Fussbucket
• "Pre-drunk, I mean--drunk"
• 1880s
• A basic assessment
• A halloween costume list

Not for the novice to be sure, but nothing that a quick trip to a craft shop can't fix. Make sure to pick up extra hot glue sticks.

Words I hate

Succulent.

The word is just gross. It's unsettling to guide the movements of your mouth from the sibilant "suck" to the obtuse and tongue-heavy "lent." You can't merely utter this word. You practically fellate it as it wriggles out of your mouth. "Succulent" is the creepy uncle of words, fondling your soft genitals as you sleep.

To the three women that have dumped me

I

We met in that period of high school where I "Didn't Give A Fuck" and wore t-shirts emblazoned with animals and openly sneered at my classmates and used words like "artifice." You were a platinum blonde firecracker with a similar chin to Jenna Jameson. When you called me out for being casually racist, I thought you were OK. When you dedicated Dancing Queen to me at a bowling alley, I had to ask you out. We went on one (group, movie) date and sat across from each other at lunch for a week. Then you dumped me, by proxy. My cellphone rang, and your proxy said merely, "Hi Harvey, are you sitting down?" in her dulcet South African accent. She explained that you thought that I put you on a pedestal and that you would never be good enough for me. I'm baffled to this day. We made out in a bathroom months later at a house party. Then you became a lesbian. Then you moved to Salt Lake City and got a bunch of piercings. I don't think about you.

II

My first and only epistolary romance. If you don't think a calendar year of well-paced e-mails loaded with PoMo jive and self-congratulatory pop culture references is sufficient to make two hipsters fall in love, you're wrong. (But in a way, you're also right.) Each salvo felt like a secure stitch in an ever-unfurling fabric. I felt like our correspondence was Pulitzer-worthy; hindsight reveals it was not. I erred when I decided to meet you in real life. We met and had sex, and two weeks after that you told me you Wanted To Be Friends. Though I have not lived through an earthquake, I distinctly remember sitting in your living room and feeling the earth move beneath my feet. I smiled and lied that "the feeling was mutual." I am finally over you, but I still think about you sometimes.

III

My last duchess. Our dalliance was brief and potent like the impact of a syringe. You laugh at all my jokes; especially the casually racist ones. Your eyes are perfect, and I fell for them immediately. Then one day you opened your lips and ground started to move. I didn't brace myself, nor did I reach out for a handhold, or breathe into a paper bag until it all blew over. Like a man with two bite marks in his chest, I ran; down the stairs of your apartment, and into a black cab, and away from your intoxicating laughter. I never stopped thinking about you.

Reasons for committing suicide

Thinking about ending it? Don't just think about it. Consider flipping that off-switch if any of the following has happened to you:

• Coworker called you out for throwing out birthday cake
• Zipper broke on your laptop sleeve
• Ran for bus, left wallet at home
• Ill prepared to explain why browsing in incognito mode
• Finally decide to accept the advances of the homely girl that digs you; get rejected immediately
• Awkward run-in with ex-girlfriend's, ex-roommate's ex-girlfriend at a movie theatre
• Jerked off to someone else's porn (without knowing)
• Have to update Calibre every time you open it
• Referred to George Harrison as Geoff Harrison
• Knocked a baby over while holding a beer
• Can't get rid of that moldy smell in your towels

What's the worst that could happen?

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: You don't sell carrots do you?
Miranda: They're right over there.
Harvey: But those are bright orange.
Miranda: And...?
Harvey: Isn't it obvious?
Miranda: Not to me.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: These pants are chartreuse. I'll be a laughing stock.
Miranda: Those look more nyanza to me.

Bitches versus bitches

I'm not sure but I think I might prefer dogs to women. Some key points in favour of canines:

• I'm not tempted to have sex with dogs, and am therefore less likely to waste my time watching them eat and chuckling at their not-really-that-funny observations.
• I never have to pretend that I like the same music as a dog.
• Dogs are 100% sure of what they want at all times, viz., to drool on you. 
• Dogs don't text me with "UGH. I hate men" at two in the morning.
• Were a dog to ask my opinion on something (which it won't) it would not respond with "Really? But those shoes are so ugly."
• Dogs can't talk, and they don't have stupid ideas.
• Dogs aren't obsessed with yogurt.
• Dogs don't own 50 pairs of shoes.
• Dogs don't tell you that it's OK if we don't visit their parents this weekend, but then check with several times leading up to Friday, if you "still don't want to go," which like, I clearly don't — that's why I said I didn't want to go — but then, will get her way with persistent and healthy doses of guilt and then while driving up North say, "you know, you didn't have to come if you didn't want." And then continue to paint her nails in the front seat of the car, but won't roll down the windows because it will mess her hair up.
• Dogs always prefer it doggy style.
• Dogs don't mind if you forget their birthday.

Also, having them put down is socially acceptable.

Religion reform #23

By respect for life we become religious in a way that is elementary, profound and alive. -Albert Schweitzer

I must confess that once, for the briefest-flicker-of-a-moment-that-was-over-before-I-knew it, I felt it. And by it, I mean the staggering presence of a creator. You heard me. The G-man. I felt it and I believed. Really.

And I should explain that I was neither high nor intoxicated when I had this feeling. I wasn't melancholy, suicidal or bristling with Baptist levels of glee. I was simply doddering around the parking garage underneath my apartment, and pondering the myriad of conveniences that pervaded my life:

• my sweet apartment
• the storage locker under my apartment that is super cheap
• the fact that we have two Zipcars in our parking garage
• the dope coffee beans I had just purchased from T.A.N.
• that I had all my limbs and mental faculties

And then I looked down at an oil slick in the filthy and poorly-ventilated space and realized how nothing was in my control. That if life was an enormous and undulating flag, gripped on all sides by a million frenetic arms, I could contribute little more than a pair of thumbs and forefingers clinging desperately to the waving sheet. And I'd watch my arms lift and fall, but feel nothing but the flag pinched between my fingertips.

The feeling evaporated in moments, but heck, I'd feel it again. The pins and needles of irrational belief is kind of intoxicating.

(It is worth mentioning that the garage is poorly-ventilated, so I might have been getting high on CO fumes.)

Lest we forget a blade of grass

Grass is unimpeded by our efforts to thwart it. It elbows its way through crevasses in concrete and asphalt. It bears the footfalls of animals and man. Grass's modern lifestyle plainly sucks. It endures ceaseless trampling and it is decapitated on the regular. People think nothing of the gaping green throats releasing the scent of plant-based violence into the suburban air. And while we often think about grass as sod — a blanket of green clinging to rolled up dirt — we mustn't forget the blade.

The Struggle exists in the solitary blade. It is He that is threatened by pests and disease, by competition for nutrients and the predation of an altogether different blade, namely, that of the whirling mower, caked with the carcasses of a thousand already-hacked brethren.

To forget the solitary blade would be to dismiss whole of humanity as "A brief flash of lush foam/On a cold stone/In a vast and soundless void." As they say.

And yet, that is the perspective of the cosmos. What blades of grass are we.

(Right? Right?)

The memory of a scent

I am walking down Valencia and my nostrils have filled with a strong sense of nostalgia.

As I pace, my brain and my senses struggle to source the meaning of this smell. I find myself on the first day of university, carrying luggage into my new student residence. Inhaling once more, I am on the grass by the banks of the Thames river. I can feel the thousand or so footsteps to class, the drunken destructive sprints home from the bars, and a calendar that was more spiral than schedule. I remember the taste of dollar beers and make-out bandits and the associated angst and indifference, and I can still hear the clunk of empty bottles of Jack Daniels accumulating on the windowsill.

I'm transported to the dark forest behind our residence where among the tall trees we would — oh, wait. It's weed. The smell is weed. Someone is definitely getting high around here.

Stream-of-consciousness recipe for brownies

Ingredients:

• Baptize my birthday
• 1 cup sweet death's surrender
• Equal parts tale untold sifted with story unspeakable
• 200g shortening
• The Rage within an old man's fist
• 4 tsp sebum
• Might
• 2 eggs
• Rieux's doubt in a blood- and phlegm-soaked nugget on the cold tile floor.

Method:

1. Striptease my funeral.
2. Revel scot and devour the elephant sutures break.
3. Mix vigorously like blood and love do mix and stare at your hands in horror.
4. Stare at your hands.
5. Stare at your hands in horror.
6. Beat in eggs slowly. Wake with a single thought that feels like a dull guillotine against your pinch-sealed throat. That thought is "pre-heat oven to 350 degrees."
7. And that's when I realized that alienation is not a place. It is a binding poison, as pervasive in your mouth like saliva.
8. Bake at the temperature of desire. Let cool. Let die.

Yield: 24

There be dragqueens

It can be really, really hard talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: What's your stance on drag queens?
Harvey: In what sense?
Darryl: Bone-ability. Obviously.
Harvey: (Sigh.) Why? Why?
Darryl: Well, Trent asked me a few days ago.
Harvey: OK...?
Darryl: It was Tuesday.
Harvey: Yeah, I don't care about that. What did you say?
Darryl: I told him I would get back to him. I need to check what the word on the street was.
Harvey: "Word on the street?" Listen, to answer your question, I'm not into to drag queens. Are you?
Darryl: Dude, I'm not gay.
Harvey: Clearly. But you are attracted to drag queens.
Darryl: No.
Harvey: Right.
Darryl: Now, having said that—
Harvey: Here we go.
Darryl: I've been dabbling in straight guys dressing as women for the purposes of comedy. There's a kind of appeal there.
Harvey: Dabbling. OK.
Darryl: Remember Jonathan Brandis in Ladybugs? You weren't even a little bit curious about what was going on under those soccer shorts? (May he rest in peace.)
Harvey: Christ.
Darryl: Hey, judge-mo, this isn't a sexual thing. It's aesthetic. You have to admit Dave Foley was pretty cute wearing a dress in Kids In the Hall.
Harvey: Please stop.
Darryl: He's gained a lot of weight since then though.
Harvey: I can't accept this.
Darryl: Terry Jones really tore it up too.
Harvey: Dude.
Darryl: And Gilda Radner.
Harvey: She's a woman.
Darryl: Hm. I guess I'd still fuck her too.
Harvey: I gotta go.

On returning underwear that is not yours

Those with girlfriended roommates and on-site laundry might relate to this problem.

That issue when you find a pair of your roommate's girlfriend's thong underwear in the bottom of a laundry machine. This problem is awkward for me because I don't have the kind of relationship with my roommate (or anyone really) where I can calmly discuss the underthings of loved ones. But what do do with the skivvies?

I've parsed through the scenarios. Here they are in descending order of bravery required to execute:

1. Knock on roommate's door, hold out thong in outstretched arm. Loudly ask, "This yours?"
2. Quietly leave the item on your roommate's office chair while he is out. He is sure to see it later, and realize what happened. Never speak of the incident.
3. Subtly monitor roommate's laundry schedule over time. When is about to do a load, wait until he is out of sight and drop the offending article in. When sorting the laundry later will probably not notice the sly addition of the unmentionable article, but even if he does he probably won't think much of it.

This third option involves the least probability of the roommate knowing that you handled his girlfriend's panties. That said, my mind is just demented enough to consider the invisible flaws with this scenario.

Like: What if he was sorting his laundry and recognized the underwear as an item lost weeks ago? And further, what if there was no other underwear in that load, and this thong stuck out like a sore thumb?

He would realize that I have been stalking his laundry habits and waiting for just the right moment to drop this thong into the laundry machine. Which would mean I'd been biding my time with his girlfriend's underwear for days, possibly weeks. And then he would look at me cock-eyed and probably announce over breakfast, "Jesus, Harvey, you need a shrink."

Fuck that. I had to go with option number four:

4. Place underwear in brown paper bag, place in metal garbage can. Move out.

On updating this weblog from a mobile phone

I refuse to do it. On those rare circumstances where I am on "the go" it's probably on one leg of an alcohol procurement journey which means its 100% likely that I am not in the mood to peck out meaningful missives on the screen of my smartphone. Besides there are very few ideas in my head worthy of immediate publish. My thoughts are like ground pork: always best to let them cook for a little bit longer.

Your flat react

I witnessed drones in east LA
A red auto speeds down this hill
Nudges my feet back to the curb

A street dog gnaws upon his bone
And the steps to your flat react
As though we've never met before

Six days and six bottles it took
To put to ink inchoate thoughts
And tuck inside this envelope

I read your name in my printing
And I think of your ceiling fan
I can feel the blades' empty air

"Finding out the girl you like is
Seeing someone else" -- is poetry
Though instead of rhyme there's the chop

Of fan blades; And words; And the air

Religion reform #22

Occasionally, one meets a religious person that isn't a nutcase. This is kind of annoying. My distaste for religion must be diluted somewhat when I encounter adherents that have no repellent opinions or values, which is obviously less fun.

Besides, for what other purpose des religion exist but to hold controversial/unprovable/batshit-crazy ideas that can't be justified without appeal to a deity or supernatural force? Most of us believe in the scientific notions of say, friction or gravity. I don't need to picket a soldier's funeral to get those points across. Actually, the sum of what I actually believe:

• that children are loud and stupid
• that one should not speak to another human being without having had a sip of caffeine
• that the sun will surely come up tomorrow

Are pervasive, non-controversial and dare-I-say-it, Solid Ideas, that are prima facie accepted by most reasonable persons. Well, I want to be unreasonable Goddammit. I want to hold some weird fucking beliefs, justifiable only by appeal to the Toucan. Namely:

• that there really hasn't been any quality music produced after 1973
• that there is no rational reason to care about the welfare of future generations, but we should anyway
• that anyone with a Klout score above 50 is wasting his days
• that marshmallows are a metaphor for the purposeless of life and we should eat them daily
• that teetotaling is just so stupid
• that if everyone were honest the world would function in an altogether more helpful way
• that you should be able to call into work and say "Listen, I'm not coming in. I'm hungover."
• that contests of public office should be decided by '80s trivia contests
• that vegans have missed the point completely
• that yes, being gay is sometimes gross, but who gives a shit
• that if you don't like Prince you should be exiled to lands remote
• that the singular purpose of human beings is to transcend ourselves and pretend (until it is true) that we are united, and subsequently turn our heads in concert to the sky and consider the darkness from which we all came. (Rather than say, which fucking type of hat our stupid clans should wear.)

If it's not the case that you think these things are self-explanatory then let me appeal to my creator, the Great Bird in the sky. For these are His words, and they are Good, and if I capitalize enough These Nouns, then surely a point has been made, and you should suffer eternally for your dissent. And also, it's not my fault I believe any of these things; I was raised this way.

The people of MUNI

These are the people standing on the platform at Powell station at 22:37:

An oriental girl wearing neutral skinny jeans, dulce de leche-colored moccasins and an azure tee. She is leaning heavily on her left foot.

A girl wearing red jeans, black chukka boots and a grey leather jacket. She has a slender face like a jackal, and she is pretty. She holds a tan purse big enough to stow a bowling ball.

A bearded hipster wearing black vans with white laces and skinny black jeans and a dark, dark camo jacket over a black and white horizontally stripped shirt. He is leaning against a pillar and he is also wearing a hat. He hair hasn't been washed in a month; there is little doubt of that.

And older Asian lady with mom-length hair and white running shoes with pale blue accents. She is wearing a dull lime-colored windbreaker and has a canvas grocery bag slung over her shoulder. She looks tired.

Wedge heels and blue jeans and a slender brown leather bag. I can't see her face, just her hair pulled into a neat bun. Brunette. A black leather jacket hides a printed blouse. She seems fun.

An old lady wearing pearl white sneakers and hair to match. Her skin is wrinkled and she complains out loud about the N Judah. I barely notice her large earrings with cats on them, and now I can't look at anything else. She's wearing loose-fitting grey slacks and a black windbreaker.

Light-grey-to-the-point-of-white tights (maybe jeggings) and calf-high black leather boots. An electric red cardigan sweater cinched with a shiny leather belt over a black tee shirt. She is much older than she dresses. Her died black hair is fading at the roots. She is curvy, but not voluptuous.

And old man with white hair and glasses. He doesn't know it but he's monochrome: verdant khakis and a plaid shirt that mixes emerald and forest green. Even his beige shoes are kind of green. He's pulling a pale mint-colored bag and holding an a taupe notebook. His black duffel bag stands out.

Black leather shoes, black tights, shiny black jeans., She's wearing a black nylon jacket and holding black backpack in her lap. She's Asian. Only the shock of her red hooded sweatshirt makes me curious about her.

Patent-leather heels, dark slacks, a grey pullover sweater with a floppy collar. She's holding a canvas bag in her lap, her hair is pulled back in a bun, and she has a round sweet face accented with pearl earrings. She smiles oddly, as I furiously scribble down notes.

Return muse

I'm notoriously bad at writing down ideas. During dinner I had a great idea for a blog post. Between mouthfuls of chicken I vowed to myself that I would remember what that idea was. Hours (and half a bottle of wine) later, my mind is... well, I don't want to say "clear." To be precise, it's dark, red and opaque like a Petite Syrah.

My idea (probably) had something to do with people. Generally my ideas about people are that a) they are untrustworthy and b) that they are malevolent. Sometimes they are both. To me this is the most egregious offense. I prefer the villain who declares himself so and even dresses the part. The pseudo-seraphim ready to pierce you between the shoulder blades are plainly: the worst.

But I'm veering from the track. Though most of my thoughts are paranoid delusions on how shitty people close to me are, I don't think that was the premise that popped into my head while eating curried chicken and naan. It might have had something to do with "ghosts." Or perhaps, it had something to do with the process of hiring interns. Fuck. What happened to this thought?

This is troublesome. Not because I think the idea was something brilliant that merited mentioning, but because it was a jumping off point. A launch pad. A point of focus. And somehow, I have lost my hold of this talisman, and lost it to the hot magma in the volcano of my mind. Perhaps, the idea was that my mind is like a volcano? No, that can't be it.

Tom Waits once commanded the muses that circled his head to "come back another time," since they had reached him at an inopportune time. Perhaps while eating I should do the same.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I can't seem to find any hand soup.
Miranda: You can't find what?
Harvey: Hand soup.
Miranda: Hand...
Harvey: ...soup.
Miranda: Right. I thought that's what you said. That doesn't exist. I think you made a verbal typo, and you're not owning up to it.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Do you have bar soup instead?
Miranda: Just get the hell out.

When I go out...

I wanna Van Gogh out. (That means a self-inflicted shotgun wound to the stomach.)

Wild Speculation

On the Higgs boson:

Tracy: Sir, I need you for a minute.
God: I'm sorry did you say something?
Tracy: (sigh) This is important, sir. Can you tear yourself away from that football game for just a second?
God: But they need me! It's regional championships.
Tracy: Sir. This is important.
God: (Slaps his Macbook shut.) Fine. What is it now? Sloths too slow?
Tracy: The humans are asking serious questions about matter. Particles. They want to know what gives them mass.
God: That's it? Just burn the answer into a taco or something.
Tracy: But we don't know sir.
God: Shouldn't we have figured this out already? Just look in the Big Bang Binder.
Tracy: (curtly) Well, the day we were supposed to have figured it out it was the NCAA finals.
God:
Tracy:
God: Fine, just develop a new force.
Tracy: That won't work. They have a model.
God: OK... then make it a field that interacts with particles to give them mass.
Tracy: A field? Made up of what?
God: I dunno, more particles?
Tracy: Whatever you say, sir.
God: And make these actually hard to discover for My sake. I've gotta get back to this game.

A train station prophet was wrong

It occurs to me that exactly five years ago, a train station prophet foretold the transmogrification of my two-wheeler into a German automobile. Truth be told, that bike was stolen and so while it is possible that the long-pilfered frame and wheels were (somewhere, somehow) melted down and folded into a new 3-series, I doubt this is the case.

Besides, this would be a needlessly literal interpretation of that Asian man's pronouncements. He meant that I would no longer be riding a bike, but instead be driving a BMW (and not to put too fine a point on it, my own BMW) though this has not come to pass. I still ride around the city on two wheels, and neither my vocation or lifestyle or income admit of a luxury sedan at this time.

It's hard not to interpret this as a failure. Even though I didn't know this strange Chinese man loitering around the train station at sunset, I took his prediction seriously. Possibly because it was unsolicited but probably because it was positive and so personal. Over the years, I have forgotten the many suggestions of my inevitable failure, but I have not forgot this. I can't help but feel that I have let him down somehow.

That said, he was probably shit-bombed when he said that. I wonder if he remembers my face or his prophecy of so many years ago? What would he think that it has entered my catalogue of remembered thoughts?

Words I hate

I think we should be friends.

As in, "I like you and all Harvey, and it's clear that we have some chemistry, and I'm obviously attracted to you on some level since we have progressed this far, but in spite of all this, I feel like yanking the ripcord on this freefall into possible happiness. And rather than tell you the truth: that I think you're not as attractive a man as I could possibly acquire if I tried a little harder, or that it takes you too long to get me to orgasm, or that it's really just too far of a bike ride to get to your place (and uphill no less), I shall opt to deliver a meaningless falsehood, viz., that I don't want a relationship (a statement that has never been true for anyone, anywhere) and that we should really just be friends. And obviously, I know this course of action is as effective a catalyst for friendship as jamming a railroad spike into someone's brain is for iron deficiency, but when I smile with my small perfect teeth and match my light brown eyes with your dark sad ones, I shall mouth the words "I wish it didn't have to be this way," and say those words too, feeling all the while that I have been rescued from the oppressive weight of the pernicious rock that is you."

I don't care for these words in this order. Please don't say them to me.

Dotsy, eh?

Gentle reader(s),

It's not without cause that the author of this web log lifts his head from his glass of whiskey and addresses the (of-course-you're-not) morons that read this site. Here are four things:

It embarrasses me to say that I don't know the exact day that this website transformed from a dot com to a dot-cee-ay. It is true that I have become neglectful of late, but nevertheless the domain change hit me like a tonne of bricks. Like a deadbeat dad finding out his teenaged daughter is rounding the bases on her second abortion, it's still a massive shock, even if I am late to the proceedings.

Many of you can't appreciate how distressing this is. As a Canadian, it's downright derogatory that our culture is so often defined by tacking the word "Canada" on to existing artefacts, like Time Magazine or So You Think You Can Dance. It's less a modifier than a warning label that says: what you're about to consume tastes different. Now this web log has become the unwilling recipient of just such a label.

It can be argued that my zest for writing suicide-y missives has waned. I've become older, less boisterous with my hate, and my muses have fled. It's also worth mentioning (though briefly) that no one actually reads this site. This slap in the face by Blogger was just about the impetus to throw in my towel completely.

I did something crazy. I moved to San Francisco.

This strange act served the dual purpose of correcting the domain on this site to something palatable, and removing me permanently from everything I have ever known. If I wasn't already alienated enough, I have finally succeeded.

So in the interest of fairness, if I will mull over excuses to quit, I must also consider prods to continue. And so it goes.

Yours always,

Harvey

Words I hate

Bromance.

I don't really know what this concept is. I feel, however, that if "bromance" was a pliable substance stretched liked putty or clay, the result would (metaphorically) resemble a goateed gentleman wearing a fitted baseball cap backwards screaming "NO HOMO" right before he goes down on a guy playing Madden on Xbox. Fortunately, there is no such substance so you can do whatever you want with the provided mental image. You're welcome.

Cyberbullying

Two parents argue from opposite sides of the breakfast table.

Dad: Tyson! Where is that kid? His food is getting cold.
Mom: Derek, stop. He doesn’t want to come down. You know he’s feeling low.
Dad: Why? Because of that kid online?
Mom: Yes. He’s being cyberbullied.
Dad: How is that a thing?
Mom: It’s very real.
Dad: Getting bullied online? What kind of a vagina is this kid?
Mom: Derek!
Dad: Look getting bullied on the playground is one thing. Tyson is a twerp and will obviously get pounded by someone bigger than him. But isn’t the computer supposed to be his domain? He’s constantly in front of that thing. Don’t tell me he’s a loser online too.
Mom: Derek. Our son is not a loser. But the other kids are making fun of him online and—
Dad: Can’t he just turn it off? Am I missing something here?
Mom: He’s not going to turn off his computer every time.
Dad: Then tell him to close the tab!
Mom:
Dad:
Mom: I don’t know if he’s using a tabbed browser.
Dad: Jesus, then what kind of a nerd is he?

Religion reform #21

The Book Of The Toucan is filled with lots of fucked up lists. The Toucan is particularly weird about his proclivity for ordered lists. From a section called "What Frosts The Toucan's Cupcakes":

20. Measure once, cut once.
21. Thou shalt not double dip.
22. Thou shall have thine order and thine method of payment ready.
23. Avoid use of the expression: "working hard or hardly working?"
24. Don't kick 'em babies.

More to follow.

The all nighter

21:00
It's been a while since I've attempted a bona fide all nighter. My college days are behind me, and I don't currently work in one of the douche jobs so there is is very little reason to burn the midnight oil. But tonight I'm going to stay up and try. Tonight is the night I'm going stay up all night and write about the experience. Stay with me.


I'll check back in hourly with my progress.


22:00
But maybe it's my 9pm coffee talking, but I'm feeling good. I might attempt a larger writing project tonight. Like that novel I've always been talking about ("The Buttress of Windsor").


23:00
Maybe I should start by reading Finnegan's Wake. Or I could do some of the university reading that I always pretended to. Or I could make some popcorn and watch TV. But sleep I will not. Fueled by caffeine and ennui, tonight will be a night to remember. A night that will live on in infamy. A night to end all nights, as I burn the midnight oil. A one night stand. A hard day's night.

0:00
It's been an hour and I have written one piece. It's a shard of an idea really. I scribbled it in a little green notebook that sits on my nightstand. It's meant to collect the miasma of brilliant ideas I emit pre-sleep.  In the morning the results are usually hysterically bad. I hope you enjoy the post.

1:00
I am unbelievably tempted by the lure of blankets and pillows. Frankly, my bed could be covered a with wet and muddy rubber garden hose and I'd probably find away to curl up with it. This is dangerous drowsy thinking. I consider distracting myself with some jumping jacks but I can't imagine what that would sound like to the neighbours. My feet thumping on the floor followed by a thwack above my head. Hm, maybe they would actually think I'm getting some.

08:43
Fuck.

Four valentines to the library

1

The fortnightly visit of our town's bookmobile was my favourite childhood memory. The bookmobile was an RV full of paperbacks that drove around the parts of the city not served by a library. It would park for an hour or so, in the parking lots of schools and community centres. Children from throughout the neighbourhood would climb on, clamber all over the worn paperbacks, and then return to whatever it was they were doing. Not me. I would show up prepared with a canvas sack. The bookmobile was also useful to pick up holds, and inter-branch transfers. I liked it. That's not to say it didn't have problems. It was smaller than a bank vault inside and all you could really find in there were Choose Your Own Adventures. Well, that's all I read at any rate. (Ask me about The System.)

2

When I was a little bit older, I undertook weekly pilgramages to the Central Branch on Saturday mornings. This weekly geek-ly was a two bus wonder. These days the thought of redeeming a transfer due to multi-stage transit makes me sad and municipally frustrated. But as a kid, anything is possible. The media section was heaven. CDs, VHS tapes and eventually DVDs. I could "rent" movies and keep them for a week, for free. And more than this, I could rent R rated movies with ease. Only occasionally would a librarian call me out on a Juliette Binoche flick or something directed by Bertolucci. Results weren't always spectacular, viz., Paris, Texas. Recognizing the iconic mask, I once signed out The Phantom of the Opera. It was a potent gateway to the rest of Lloyd Webber, and Kander and Ebb, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Boubil and Schonberg, Maury Yeston, and the rest of the sopping gay world of musicals. Could I out-fag a cum-guzzling Mormon about that shit. Try me.

3

One of my exes hates the library. She had a nose-ring and worked at a used bookshop if that's any indication. She considered a book (a word she emphasized by pressing her crossed arms against her chest) to be a personal artefact. Borrowing a book is like borrowing a sip of water, she once said. This, of course is a dumb and worthless opinion. I actually think collecting books is offensive; you can't really own knowledge so hoarding it seems ridiculous to me. To whomever invited the library, I salute you.

4

I dig the library so much, I have even had sex in one.  Not with the aforementioned ex -- though I suspect she would not object to the concept. Rumour has it that the fifth floor of Weldon was the place, so in my final year of university me and the GF at the time trundled over. It was a Tuesday night in Winter. When we got there, we couldn't find an empty enough space amidst the stacks, so we slid an upholstered chair into the stairwell that connects floors. Though the ultra-sensitive echo, fluorescent lighting and concrete were contrary to both eroticism and the library atmosphere, it was sex all the same. Plus, in terms of altitude we still qualify for inclusion in the almanac. I would think.

Expressions I can't stand

Cold snap.
I hate everything about this. What's so snappy about it? Ugh, even the word "snappy" gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Worse for wear.
What the fuck? How redundant is this shit. Just say "worn out."

Time's up.
I don't actually hate these combinations of words so much as the person saying them. If you ever find yourself using this expression (whether in an official capacity or not) you are probably an asshole.

Back to basics.
Fine, no one actually says this.

One hundred forty two words about redheads

Readers,

I apologize for my absence. January slipped out of my fingers like a well-basted football; in that time I suffered no fewer than two existential crises, listened to Wagner's Gotterdammerung, confronted my own sense of failure, and my failures, and the act of failing, and turned 30 years old. Coincidence?

For lack of anything else, here are 142 words about redheads:

In the simple unabashed opinion of this author, all redheads should be gathered, transported to locations remote and gassed with poison until they are dead. I would also submit that redhead be strangled at birth with no exceptions. Here is why.

"Gingers" as they are affectionately known, are freaks with horrible translucent skin, appalling freckles and questionable dispositions. They are frequently heard complaining about things like "the sun" and the dearth of cosmetics that suit their ghastly complexions. When they are not complaining, they are intolerably cheery and possess a giddy bray that makes my knuckles whiten with rage.

I propose the systematic extermination of both male and female redheaded persons. It makes sense to detonate a nuclear bomb on Ireland and continue freakward thence, until the globe is scourged of this crimson menace.

Yes, even Amy Adams. I'm serious about this.

Love,

Harvey


P.S. It's just the Wagner.