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.