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.

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?

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.

If you have a significant other...

How could it be possible that his or her parents actually like you? It's not, because you are having sex with their child. Let that sink in. You are blithely fucking (or at least have fucked) something two people created and reared for probably most of their lives. They nursed her wounds when she scraped her knee, and you probably came on her face two nights ago.

That's why the dinner conversation is awkward. It needs to be. Stop complaining because it could be worse.

A completely whispered dissertation on the milk to cereal ratio

Son? Michael? Psst. Michael. Michael. Michael! Hey, good, you're up. Good morning! What? I think it's 6:30. It's a bit early I know, but I wanted to catch you before school today.

Saturday? Already? I guess Daddy just lost track of the days. That happens sometimes when grownups are "funemployed." No, no. That's just a joke, son. It just makes it seem more... fun. Your mother doesn't get it either. But since you're up, I just wanted to talk to you about something important. It's been on my mind for a while, and I've been putting it off, but anyway -- I hope we can talk about this now. You know how you like to eat cereal each morning? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. About how to eat cereal.

I know you know how to eat cereal, Michael, but there's a right way and a wrong way. And I'm your father. I have to make sure you know how to do it the right way, OK? Now, for different kinds of cereal there will be different optimal amounts, but no matter what kind of cereal you're eating there will be an amount that is too much or too little. And it's important that you stay within these boundaries.

Michael, please try to pay attention.

Well, this may seem boring but there's a lot to it. We're talking about a delicate balance here. There isn't any other meal that combines starch and dairy products in such an intimate way. I don't want you to take this lightly. But don't be embarrassed about it either. You can always come to me with questions. Do you have any questions now?

Are you sure? You can ask me anything.

No? OK, well, I guess a good place to start would be to go through different kinds of cereal. Flakes are the most common, and there are also shapes, weaves, muesli or grain-based cereals, sugar cereals and then everything else, like bran buds, kasha, and other stuff you probably don't like anyway. But you might want to eat these kinds someday, so it's good to be prepared. Anyway, it almost goes without saying that you should pour the cereal first—

OK, OK, you know this, but I just wanted to make sure. I'm your father, Michael. So, you pour the cereal into the bowl, but not all the way to the top. Do you know why?

That's right! You need to leave room for the milk. You're a smart kid, you know that? You get that from me. Your impatience and temper, that's your mom's doing. But let's not get into that now. Anyway, when you're pouring your milk you're probably wondering, how much room do I leave? And how much milk do you add? Those are kind of tough questions, and I understand if you aren't sure about this. To be honest, when I was your age I had no clue. Really.

Michael, please don't go back to sleep. This next part is important. You see, you have to think about what kind of cereal you poured and it's absorption rate of milk.

Well, "absorption" means how fast the cereal sucks up the milk. Like a sponge. Kind of like your mom is sucking up the money I've worked 30 years for while—

No, no, nevermind. Some cereals, like flakes, absorb milk really fast while others, like those little Os, are much slower. And you've got to think about that before you add the milk.

Just a second. We're not done, yet. Are you like this in school, Michael? You really have to pay attention. I mean, sure you might think you know all about cereal -- I'm sure I certainly did at your age -- but there are other things to consider. Like transportability. You don't want to fill your bowl with so much milk that it is difficult to take to wherever you are having breakfast. You'll spill everywhere. This is why I always make my bowl in the exact spot I consume it. There's no chance of spillage.

What the Hell does she know? You mother has no— I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I mean, yes, I occasionally spill a few flakes in the living room when I am having cereal. But that happens to everyone. Daddy's under a lot of stress these days.

Because some people think it's easy to just find a new job just-like-that, so Daddy spends most of his days as an errand-boy for a temperamental shrew who things being a dermatologist makes her some kind of life-saving--

I'm sorry, I'm getting off topic. This next part is a little tricky, so pay attention. So consider that every cereal has it's maximum absorption level. That's the most amount of milk that will be absorbed by the cereal. So before you even start pouring the milk, you're going to want to think about how much milk you want leftover in the bowl and whether or not you are prepared to drink it. And I don't want you slurping it up with your spoon either. You will have to lift the bowl with both hands, and drink it down.

Because that's the polite thing to do. Breakfast isn't a free-for-all, son. There are rules and there is a right way of going about things. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Some cereals, especially those sugar cereals you like so much, will impart flavour and particles to the leftover milk. Are you prepared for that? Personally, I can't stand the flavour milk takes on—

I'm just teaching our son about cereal.

I know perfectly well what time it is—

Because I think it's important.

Well, he's my son too, so I think—

I was going to do that later. I don't need to answer—

Let's pick this up later, son.

On stuff I refuse to wear

Shorts

Only little boys may wear shorts without admonishment.  To everyone else, take heed.  When you wear shorts, you are saying quite simply: I don't take life that seriously.  And mind you, I'm not opposed to that particular point of view.  But for probably not very fair or easily-well-articulated reasons, I consider "little boys" the only cross-section of humanity that deserves this sumptuous state of being.  Everybody else, get back to work.  This includes you too, little girls and pets.

(I have used "little boys," sumptuous, and pets in a single post.  This ought to get traffic bubbling.)

Altar boys

Dear anyone who will listen,

I am sick and disgusted by the depiction of altar boys in the media.  We are not all weepy, molested, Priest-suckers.  Some of us spent our years in the church employing common sense, and avoiding those situations in which we may get diddled by a clergyman.

I can't even tell my friends that I was an altar boy without them assuming I once blew a Priest.  The vast majority of altar boys escaped that treatment, and deserve some recognition of that fact.  Not every little boy is tempted by promises of candy or special treatment.  But then not every little boy is fucking retarded.

I certainly do not want to make light of the horrible plight of some my brethren, but I think they would agree: the public image of the male acolyte is served best not by some molested sack of marbles, but by a proud unsullied member of society such as myself.  Let us carry the torch so that you may shine (in your special way).

Just kiddin',

Harvey Kornbluth

Dead teens

You just can't say anything bad about a murder victim.  Especially if they're under eighteen. Every news story about a slain teenager describes a straight-A student with a helpful demeanour, who "never got into any trouble."

Who are these people, and why do they keep getting iced?  Exactly zero teenagers I knew growing up meet this description, including me.  I had mostly Bs and Cs and sought various mild forms of trouble.  As for "helpful" and "always had a smile on his face"?  Fuck that.

Most teenagers are fucking assholes.  Egotistical nitwits that contribute zero to society and produce nothing but poorly-worded scorn and video game scores.  I'd happily execute a couple a day with a crowbar for exercise.  I'd snap their fucking skateboards in half too.

But I digress.  Really, I'd just love to read an honest news story about a teen that died.  To wit:

OAKVILLE — Barely 7 people gathered on the weekend for a half-hearted candlelight vigil at Coronation Park to pay tribute to murdered teenager and local jerk Harvey Kornbluth.

The remains of the 17-year-old man were discovered in a remote, wooded area in Coronation Park surrounded by Crispy Crunch wrappers and pornographic magazines.  An autopsy detected lethal amounts of stab wounds to his head, face, mouth and cranial area.

He had also been shot through the chest.

Kornbluth, who was last seen 12 November, was not well-liked by his school or community.  An average student, he did not belong to any clubs or groups.  He was known for his drunken-outbursts, his unkempt appearance, rowdy behaviour, and making out with your girlfriend.  Many students didn't know him, but those who did said they remember a bitter man, who was always ready with a snide or awkward comment.

Among those who attended Saturday’s vigil were a couple of relatives, and three acquaintances hoping to collect on debts owed to them.  Chuck Kessler was among the mourning visitors.

"Harvey touched a lot of lives," he said. "And almost exclusively in a negative way.  There aren't a lot of positive things I can say about a murder, but [Kornbluth's subsequent non-existence] is probably one of them."

Kornbluth's only cousin, who asked not to be named, said he’s overwhelmed by the number of people who have offered their support and condolences to his family.

"It's surprising; he was really such an asshole." he said. "And a pretty weird guy.  What was he doing in that forest anyway?"

The loss will prove inconsequential to the community, as Kornbluth was a staunch non-contributor and misanthrope.  Vigil organizer Lisa Dupont said she wanted to see if any of the guests would know about the $130 Korbluth owed her.

A funeral will take place this Thursday at St. Jude's Church.  Police have a suspect in custody who has confessed to the killing.  They are considering laying charges.

I'm glad I lived to not see that one.

Just because you're born in a parking lot...

...doesn't mean you're white trash.  You are however, probably some form of trash.

Baby born in parking lot.

Okay, fine.  She looks adorable.  But I'm not changing my policy on babies born in Windsor, namely, they are probably some form of trash.

Nostalgic post

Have you noticed the return of No Name's original package design? I was grocery shopping the other day and there was no mistaking it: Don Watt's iconic boxes of yellow and black are back.

I guess the re-branding is meant to refocus consumers' attention to the simplicity and low cost of No Name products. I picked up a carton of crackers and the change was striking. All colors, images, pizazz: gone. I suppose it's not a bad way to lure increasingly frugal shoppers in today's ever-sinking economy. If it looks cheap, thinks the financially-strapped consumer, then I must be saving money.

But for reasons unrelated to the state of the economy, it warms my heart to see the return of black Helvetian text on fields of yellow. It reminds me of my childhood.

I grew up across the street from a No Frills store. (I believe it was Scott's, but who the Hell cares.) I was fascinated by it. It was just a giant yellow brick prism that I could stare at from our living room window.

"What does "frills" mean?" I recall asking my mother. She told me something about pleating on dresses. I didn't get it.

Saturday afternoon we would trek to the grocery store. My mother would unfold her grocery cart and take me by the hand, and we'd cross the busy street, pass through the seemingly magic automatic doors, walk past the musical coin-op pony, where my feet would drag and my mother would insist "come-on", and then through the turnstile, and into a land of savings. Signs proclaimed that No Frills would not be beat on an assortment of staples, and I believed them.

And though I actually didn't enjoy nor participate in the shopping, I loved No Name products. Not only did the boxes match the intense nuclear yellow of the store façade, but the bold, black print on the boxes was entrancing. My young mind (then devouring a solid six hours a day of television) understood the concept of marketing and I could not ignore the extraordinary purity of the descriptive labels. No Name described their contents in way that none of their neighbours on the shelves did; with banal and pristine accuracy: "Bran Cereal", "Unsweetened Orange Juice", "Frozen Peas", "Women's Pantyhose".

There were no marketing euphemisms, no advertising slogans, no misleading imagery, no jazz, no frills, nothing. Nothing beyond a rote description in our two national languages.

To me, No Name represented the promise a very simple and accessible world. A world where one walks into a perfectly yellow cube, fills a cart with smaller geometric solids, equally yellow and accordingly labeled, pays, and leaves. A world with no brands, but only goods cherished for their intrinsic value. Where consumerism means nothing more than picking the cube that suits your needs and leaving the store. A world only a child could treasure really. Uncomplicated and serene. And bright fucking yellow.

(My fantasy has a certain communist charm to it, I'll admit. But I'm not a pinko.)

Eventually, as the Neon '90s gained momentum, the No Name non-brand ethos became a brand itself, and irony died of a coughing fit. The pseudo-Soviet curves of black Helvetica melted into script and serifs. Other (non-yellow) colours and pictures(!) crept on to the packaging, and No Name because indistinguishable from other store brands. Somehow in trying to become less generic, No Name became generic completely.

In an economy overrun with options, preferences, personalization and selection, it's refreshing to see simplicity return to the grocery shelves. But oddly, while they might be the only honest form of advertising in the store, to me, they also represent a lie I've held on to since childhood. Namely, the manifestation of a false utopia, simplistic, and saffron, and shielded from the vagaries of the free market.

Fables with modern morals

A boy and his cat

young and foolish child was amusing himself among his father's effects, though he was forbidden to do so. He came upon a fat ball of twine and decided to play a game.Taking his family's cat outside into the sun, he tied one end of the string around its neck and shooed the cat away. As the the family pet ran, it pulled the string behind it and the child laughed as the ball of twine shrunk, spinning in his hands.

But soon the cat was out of sight and the child was left holding a long yellow string. He cried for the cat's return, but it did not come. Growing tired the little boy began to pull the string back toward him to fetch the cat. But after tugging the entire length of string, the cat was gone.He was sobbing when his parents returned home and they rightly scolded him, saying "what a naughty and foolish thing you have done!" The child cried at his folly, and the cat was gone forever.

Moral: keep your pussy in sight, and on a short leash, dude.

The second last temptation of Christ

A rare nugget of spiritual teaching from my childhood:

Harvey: Daddy, where did the Easter bunny come from, and why does he leave chocolate eggs for me to find?
Dad: Son, long ago there was a man named Jesus Christ. The prophets foretold his birth, and that he was the Messiah. He was God's only son, and he came to Earth to redeem man and die for his sins, which he did when he was crucified by the Romans--
Harvey: Daddy? What about the Easter bunny?
Dad: I'm getting to that, son. You see, Jesus was nailed to the cross, where he bled to death. And as he was dying, he was growing delirious, and weak, and he cried out: "There will be bunnies! And they shall leave chocolate in orbs. Come to the chocolate, and find it. The Kingdom of God will wait for those with eggs. On Judgment Day you will need those eggs. And there will be cream filled varieties as well."
Harvey: Really?
Dad: Yes. And then he died, but they lost him or something, and now he's in Heaven with God. Or somewhere in the Middle East. Now go to bed, son.

Of mosquitoes and (canned) meat

Many summers ago, when I was a child, I asked my older (and wiser) cousin just what the point of mosquitoes was.

"So the birds have something to eat," was his calm and learned reply.

And standing in the hot sun --scratching my forearms and neck with vehemence-- I understood how everything, including pests, had a proper function in life. No matter how irritating or obscure, everything had a purpose, though perhaps beyond the comprehension of my tiny child mind.

But being older (and wiser) now, I'm not sure where spam fits in. I don't mean the lunch meat from Hormel -- which serves to feed poor Britons -- but rather unwanted electronic mail.

For what birds are these pests nourishment? Most of the time my Bulk Unsolicited Mail (BUM) takes the form of Faulkneresque streams-of-consciousness, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, cold calls for Viagra in pidgin English. Today however, I received this pointed missive in my box, addressed to me and six other lucky recipients:

I hate to be the bearer of bad news but if you
are not making at least $1500 or more per week
from your own place then you haven't listened to
my message yet so shame on you...but you can make
a wrong right by giving me 2 minutes of your time.

This is so easy is crazy. As long as you have a phone
you too can do this. Best of all..

No Selling
No Cold Calls
No trying to recruit your friends and family.

So quit wasting precious time and call to listen.
866.727.89O8

Huh. I sure don't earn a grand and a half a week sitting at home. Come to think of it, I earn nothing. Am I wasting precious time? I asked myself rhetorically. No, no, wait. I'm sure I'll have to sell something to make this work.

What's this? No selling? No cold calls, even?

I call the number.

Voice of Opportunity: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Marshall—
Harvey: Good afternoon to you. I'm looking to speak with Kent?
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry, who?
Harvey: Kent. Kent.

I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"

Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated tone.) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?

And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:


Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.

I proceed as if leaving voicemail:

Harvey: Kent, this is Harvey, Harvey Kornbluth. I want you to know that I am ab-satively pos-olutely revved up to hop on board. Give me a shout so we can pull the trigger on this bitch. Hit me at at XXX-XXX-XXXX again, that's Harvey Kornbluth at XXX-XXX-XXXX. We met on the beach in Oahu? I am looking forward to your call at your earliest convenience. Please do not call me before eleven in the morning.

The man on the other line starts to speak. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound -- for more options.

Voice of Opportunity: Sir? Um. Sir?
Harvey: Kent is that you?
Voice of Opportunity: No, it's still me. I will forward your message for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Harvey: Yes, damnit. Can you please tell me about this opportunity that will change my life?

I would tell you here that he spoke at length about Ponzi schemes and reselling Beanie Babies, but in truth I called the number twice and just got a disconnected tone.

Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.

Sunday nights can be dull you know.  I wonder how the other six fared.

Boxed in

I revisited an old piece I wrote called "On the merits of graph paper."

I remember my first graph paper -- though I'm sure you don't. I was a little boy of about five years old, and my mother (who thought it best that I avoid the pratfalls of the playground) got me a ream of quad-ruled graph paper and a new carton of black crayons. I was thrilled: black was my favourite colour, followed closely by white. (Even at a young age, my conservative values were evident.)

Now, I was happy to skip the out-of-doors and draw all afternoon. But this paper before me was curious. I spent a few minutes cross-legged on the hardwood floor inspecting it. I had only ever experienced construction paper and wallpaper as media before and the possibilities contained in this new, line-y paper excited me. I didn’t understand the purpose of those little blue squares, but they were pretty neat.I lay prone in our living room armed with my new stack and the carton of untouched crayons. I was excited: for an indoor cat like me new crayons are second only to new socks. I pried open the carton with a level of care not typically befitting a five-year-old. Not that I was precocious or anything; I also remember testing a few fresh crayons with a bite.

The waxy-good taste notwithstanding, I set to work. My first drawings were clearly oblivious to the perpendicularity beneath. Just fat black circles. A few triangles too, but mostly wildly drawn loops, big ones, redoubled and thick. The minority of triangles were thin and erratic and resembled little huts.

And then I noticed the blue lines.I put down my dulled crayon, its wrapper peeling, and touched my fingers to the page, as if I expected the gridlines to be warm or have some texture or something. But there was nothing. The lines were just there. My young mind couldn’t see a point to the grid. After all, I had not yet learned how to write and plotting graphs was an activity I would wait much longer to enjoy. I unleashed a crayon and started to experiment.I began by tracing a single blue line. I pushed the crayon along as though guiding a soldier to safety. I was careful, steady, and exact. After a few centimetres of travel I looked at my handiwork, satisfied. For probably the first time in my short life I had drawn a straight line. I tried again, this time at right angles from the line just drawn. To the graph paper Gods (possibly) watching, my intention must have been clear: I was drawing a box.

I was soon a box works. With almost maniacal fervour, I was smothering each leaf with dozens of four-sided figures. Some were rectangles to be sure, but most were cute squares. For the rest of the afternoon that's all I would draw. It was deeply satisfying ending a line, turning sharply and beginning again. And nothing could beat the thrill of meeting a perpendicular line head on at the corner. I drew squares in every way I could, each one perched gingerly on that textureless grid of blue. Eventually, I think I had gone through thirty pages.

And as I immersed myself in the craft of box-making, I lowered my head close to the page, my eyes chaperoning each line drawn (at what my mother would no doubt consider too close a distance). So close to the grid, I imagined myself standing in its midst, watching giant crayons float by like ominous zeppelins. And my legs would shake, along with the whole expanse of my paper world, as the colossal crayons converged with the land and dragged along the gridlines like gliding black elephants. Of course, I was safe; standing far from the edge of any blue lines. But it wouldn’t be long before a short wall of flaky black wax would materialize beside me. Then I would run. I always managed to rush out of each box just before it could close around me; before it could trap me in forever. But nowhere on the page was safe. They followed me everywhere. The massive crayons were unstoppable.

Nor could I stop. I considered drawing triangles again, or anything else, but it was too easy and pleasing to follow those lines. I drew more and more squares. And though I tried, there were no other shapes in my head. Orphaned ideas sat crumpled by my side and the suns and tepees that had littered my floor were covered by a blanket of perfect black squares.

* * *

Twenty years later I get a package in the mail from a faraway friend: a pad of quad-ruled graph paper wrapped in twine. (Clearly, she knows me well.) The gift is meant to inspire, but it can't. I try to write a story, a poem, and even try to draw a simple picture, but it doesn't come.

Not barely a ream, and the pad sits before me, blank, save for the orange glow of the setting sun outside; and I am stuck inside. I follow the lines with my pen absently. Once again I'm boxed in. And though I've outgrown the gridlines on the page, I can vaguely feel the presence of the black monsters looming overhead.I'm blocked.

Every attempt at creativity brings to mind the image of a whirling circle, or stabbed-out triangle obscured by pages of black squares. Like a dense snowfall has enveloped my house: and I am trapped inside.I look at my pad on my desk, and at the unravelled twine, and at the last remaining glint of the setting sun through my bedroom window, and sigh. The crayons are looming and I cannot evade them. I barely manage to scurry before another descends to trap me in. I put down my gift, my pad of graph paper, and retire. I am boxed in.

Writing is tough

When I was a kid I loved handwriting, though I didn't really know what it was. You see, in my tiny-child-brain I differentiated "handwriting" from printing; it was any squiggly barrage of well-slanted loops that my poor young mind couldn't decipher. It was like code, and I desperately wanted to learn it. I relished the sound my pencil made against paper when I would pretend to "handwrite". It was fun.

But oddly, when it came time to learn cursive script in school I was less than enthused. Actually, it was a simple misunderstanding: I did not know what 'cursive' meant. All I wanted was to learn how to "handwrite". I was certain we were learning something else.

Besides, the quaintly joined-together letters I begrudgingly traced bore no resemblance to the manic up-and-downery that I saw in my parents' notes -- or that I would imagine furiously scribbled by balding men with a quill. The cursive I learned just looked like printing for folks too lazy to lift their pen. The letters were so fat and round, it was disgusting frankly. I held out for when they were going to teach us the real way to write.

Of course, that day never came. Only too late did I realize that I missed the entrée.

So now my handwriting is an irregular hybrid of printing and cursive that is constantly evolving, since I never developed a consistent system of writing. That's not to say I can't write legibly, or cursively: I do, and can, but it feels unnatural. Instead, my writing looks like manic printing adorned with wild filigree that also serves to loosely hold my words together like art deco girders; well that, or I write in all uppercase like a comic book artist or architect or someone else from some shithead vocation where you're proud of your printing ability.

What this means is, I write very slowly by hand, and unless I am concentrating, the product descends quickly into a morass of sloppy loops and scribbles. For evidence just look at the last few pages of any of my university exam booklets. Or this stack of suicide notes. Or this grocery list.

I only mention this to emphasize how considerable an obstacle this is for a sort-of writer like me. I literally don't like to write.

Unless I am near a computer -- which is often, but (apparently) not often enough in the right circumstances -- I am armed only with a notepad and a pen. The pen too, has to be perfect. Ball point pens are stupid and shitty. Period. (Unless they are those solid-coloured papermate pens that offices buy by the pound, which, for some reason, at some point in their pen-lives, begin to produce ink in unpredictable goopy blobs. I enjoy this in the same way certain folks enjoy chunks of fruit in a smoothie (not in the exact same way mind you), but I digress.)

Why am I telling you all this? Well, first, because I have nothing else to write about and this is my web-log and fuck you.

And second, I really don't know. Perhaps I'm feeling nostalgic for the thrill I used to get from scribbling crazy loops on a page, in code, like a bald man with a quill. (Though I have to admit I now prefer being able to understand my writings.)

Or maybe I'm trying to justify the length between recent posts. Or maybe this pathetic entreaty will convince someone to buy me a laptop (or hiptop!) computer. Who knows. The truth, gentle reader, is up to you.

I have to go practise my alphabet now.

From the archives

10 October 1992

Unseasonably warm today; I didn't need my scarf. That alone would be cause to celebrate, but instead, I suspect the change in atmospheric pressure is affecting the faculties of my mouth-breathing colleagues. To wit: while playing tether-ball at recess today, Jeremy Pollack called me a "gay faggot". He was, of course, completely oblivious to the redundancy of his statement. When I pointed it out to him he countered that my having noticed only made me "gayer". Bravo Jeremy, well-played.

I continue my losing streak at tetherball. My fingers keep getting caught in the string.

I have also made little headway finding a source for cigarettes, but will pursue some leads tomorrow. Apparently Shane can steal some from his Dad, though he may or may not smoke menthols. This would dramatically increase the schoolyard supply and thus depress prices. I have to see if Shane is willing to consolidate forces on this one.

For art class, we have to make a hallowe'en picture with sparkles and construction paper. I have not yet decided upon a theme, but I think I might explore the terror of "night rape". Sparkles may not turn out to be an appropriate medium.

My book report is due in three days, and I have not yet exhausted the web of possibilities present in this Choose-Your-Own-Adventure I am reading, You Are A Communist. I must increase my reading pace by 20%. I will also make my final determination soon, but it's looking like it's going to be an eight out of ten.

PB and J for lunch. No complaints.

On the proper treatment of debris

The stern-faced and mustachioed headmaster stood before the boys, eyeing them with an air of suspicion and distaste. His bald head and angular features induced panic and trepidation in the first year class, sitting nervously in their uniforms, waiting for him to speak.

"There are not a lot of regulations here at Eton", he began, "but it is expected that you, Master Billingsworth, Master Traylor, Master Jones, Master Cromwell, Master Olivieri, Master Fanshawe, Master McClelland, Master Overinghamshire, Master White, Master Douffard, Master Olifant, Master Niles, Master Wodehouse, Master Richards, Master Wesley and Master Franklin," he paused very briefly to breathe, "will treat each other with a modicum of respect, refrain from bloody violence, et cetera, et cetera.

"But," he intoned gravely, his eyes narrowing, "there are very strict rules on the proper treatment of debris."

As the headmaster crisply pronounced the last word in his dictum, the boys in the classroom looked at in each other with some confusion and of course, fear. The headmaster launched into his oratory:

"On the proper treatment of debris.

"Number one. Debris shall never intentionally nor unintentionally be left, dropped, placed or created on the premises of this campus, nor any of its affiliated colleges.

"Number two. The presence of debris is to be avoided at all costs. Students will take all and any available measures to remove or destroy any debris they find or discover except where the destruction of such debris could result in the death or dismemberment of any student.

"Number three. Debris is a scourge upon our society and shall be treated as such. Any student found to be actively creating or disseminating debris upon our fair campus shall be expelled without recourse to appeal.

"Number four. Should a student come to know of another student or staff member who is actively creating or disseminating debris on our fair campus, it is his duty to immediately report these actions to the Campus Debris Authority. Failure to do so is considered a breach of the rules described herein, and said student will face expulsion."

The boys in the class continued to listen to the headmaster with disbelief.

"Number five. Those found with debris on their person or amongst their personal effects and belongs will be placed on suspension immediately and escorted off the premise of this campus, until all traces of that student's debris have been found and destroyed.

"Number six. Debris is not a laughing matter. Jokes about debris will not be tolerated.

"Number seven. If debris shall be discovered on campus it must be reported to the Campus Debris Authority immediately. Students are to remain with the debris until authorities arrive. One may also pick it up and throw it in the rubbish bin.

"Number eight. In those cases where debris is thrown, lobbed, tossed, flung, hurled, at another student, that student which touched the debris last before it reached the ground will be found to be the right owner of that debris and will be responsible for its removal. This is also known as the "touched it last" rule.

"Number nine. All students will be familiar with rules pertaining to The Proper Treatment of Debris and may be asked to recite them by any professor or staff member on this campus at any time. Failure to repeat these rules, precisely as written, will result in immediate suspension."

The class was silent for a few moments as the boys realised the headmaster was finished speaking. Not one of the boys could believe what he had just heard. The classroom was silent; the hard, aged headmaster stood like a tweed-wearing dictator behind the podium at front.

Suddenly, but slowly, Olivieri raised his arm.

The headmaster turned his crotchety head. His eyes were narrow slits. "Yes, boy?"

"Pardon me, headmaster," he stammered, "but isn't the 's' at the end silent, sir?"

And though the other boys tried to contain themselves, the classroom exploded with snickers and laughter.

Daaad!

Jamie's dad was forever embarrassing him.

It was last May, and Jamie was walking home from school with some friends. Unbeknown to him, his dad was waiting for him, on the front lawn, playing lawn darts, in the nude, with a homemade set. He had used duct tape to affix knitting needles and swizzle sticks inside empty bottles of wine, ice wine, and Jack Daniel's. Jamie's dad had even taken the time to affix crude flaps made of cardboard (also applied with duct tape), for aerodynamic purposes. These efforts made for a poor lawn dart of course, but Jamie's dad seemed not to care; and as Jamie walked home, the bastard stood naked, and utterly intoxicated, tossing empty glass bottles high into the air with reckless abandon.

As Jamie approached the edge of his property, he and his friends heard a smash and a moist thud.

It was only a few more steps down the sidewalk, but Jamie was just in time to see his dad collapse in a stupor on the blue-green lawn. Gurgles of vomit dripped from the man's chin and nose, and Jamie could see glints of broken glass fragments sticking to his bare legs where blood was pouring out. The lawn was covered with broken knitting needles, empty bottles and the related jade-green shards, a crude ellipse spray-painted in red (presumably a target), and a pile of human feces (presumably Jamie's father's). Jamie's friends were speechless. Jamie rolled his eyes.

"Daaad!"

On the merits of graph paper

When I was about four years old, and my coordination skills were still poor, my mother thought it best that I avoid the pratfalls of the outdoor world and pursue more indoor type activities. One afternoon, she got me a ream of quad-ruled graph paper and a box of black crayons -- as black was my favourite colour of crayon, followed very closely by white. (Even at a young age, my conservative values were evident.)

This choice of paper was curious to me. Having only ever experienced construction paper and wallpaper as media, the possibilities contained in this new, line-y paper excited me. Maybe I was too young to understand the practical purpose of those little blue squares, but I thought they were neat nonetheless.I was sitting prone on our living room floor, the stack of paper before me and the box of crayons lying next to it, filled with untouched crayons. A box of new crayons is very satisfying for a child, and I recall prying open the box with a level of care not expected of a four-year-old. Now, this is not to say I was precocious, as I remember biting into a few crayons as well.

The waxy-good taste notwithstanding, I set to work. My initial attempts with the graph paper demonstrated my obliviousness to the perpendicular lines on the page. Big fat black circles. A few triangles, but mostly wildly drawn loops, big ones, redoubled and strong. My few triangles were considerably smaller, but erratic and resembled little huts.

After a while the floor was littered black triangle and big black suns. I was getting bored.That's when I noticed the lines. Putting down my crayon, I remember touching the lines on the page, as if I expected them to be warm, or have a definite texture of their own. There was nothing. I knew both sides were lined, but I checked again, nonetheless. The pages became fascinating to me, as I could see no purpose whatsoever to pre-print blue lines on paper. I had not yet learned how to write, and plotting graphs was an activity I would wait much longer to experience. I pulled out a fresh crayon and began to experiment.

I began by tracing, with the utmost care, over a single blue line with my crayon. Lack of outdoor activities notwithstanding, I clearly had fine motor skills. When my first line was completed, I looked at it satisfied. For what was probably the first time in my short life, I had drawn a straight line. I tried again, this time perpendicular from the top of the one just drawn. To anyone watching, my intention must have been clear: I was drawing a box.

I was soon making box after box after box. Some were rectangles, but most were squares. But that's all I would draw. And after a while, I had gone through thirty pages of graph paper, having drawn nothing but squares and rectangles.

And as I drew, I remember becoming trapped in those little boxes, as though the little blue bars were the mesh of an artistic prison cell. I thought about drawing triangles again, or something else, but following the lines was pleasing and easy. I drew more squares. Try as I might, I couldn't complete a picture of anything else. I crumpled orphaned picture ideas. The only pages left intact were full with black squares and rectangles.

* * *

Twenty years later I get a package in the mail from a faraway friend: a pad of quad-ruled paper wrapped in twine. It's meant to inspire, but I realise I am still trapped by the blue grid of lines on the page. I try to make a portrait, a story, a cartoon or a simple picture, but it doesn't come. Instead, I follow the lines, and produce nothing but black squares. Perfect, banal, and ordinary.

I think that Sunday afternoon on the living room floor was my first experience with writer's block. And not for want of creativity, but because I think I allowed myself to get trapped in the habit of easy non-creative drudgery. This is what I think about when I can't write. My knees and elbows on a hardwood floor, a sea of crumpled ideas around me, and squares. Perfect empty black squares.

Fond memories of horrific events

It was the autumn carnival. I still remember the warm aroma of funnel cakes beckoning us to the tiny stand in the midway, manned by an equally tiny Italian dressed all in white and capped with a proper chef's hat. Engulfed in sugary redolence and warmth, the tiny man poured batter gently on to the oil's surface in the deep fryer. Beneath the awning of his hut the other kids and I watched with rapt anticipation as the nascent funnel cakes took form.

When it was my turn, I pressed my finger to the batter stained glass. I had been eyeing a particular funnel cake since it had first touched the hot oil. With an almost fatalistic sense of purpose, I made my selection. As a topping I requested powdered sugar and whipped cream. The tiny man looked at me with gentle eyes as he handed me the confection.

"That'll be $5.50, please."

I was dumbstruck. My parents had only given me a five dollar bill. I held the five dollar bill aloft, as if to indicate that that was all I had. I recall looking directly at the man with the gentle eyes. Time seemed to stop. He understood.

Without hesitation he lifted the warm funnel cake from my hands and tossed it like a Frisbee into a garbage pail behind me. It sailed over my head, and I turned around in time to watch the delicious pastry, whose history I followed from inception, meet its demise in the fly-ridden steel garbage can.

"Next!" The tiny man said.

I remember walking away despondently with my hands deep in my pockets. Then I noticed that there were a couple of quarters in there. But it was too late. I never ate funnel cake again.