Kill Everything

Alcoholic with a Guitar

2011-12-23T14:53:00.001-05:00

Just
an alcoholic with a guitar
begging for spare change.

Keep thinking about
that future bottle.

Not thinking about
the song
that I am playing.

That's Not a Poem

2011-12-23T05:31:00.002-05:00

"That's not a poem!"
the critic said.
"That's just prose
chopped up into
little pieces!"

"Fuck you, critic!"
I said,
and pushed him
into the street.
He was struck by a bus
and killed instantly.

The police were called.
When they arrived
they lifted me up
on to their shoulders.
A parade was organized
in my honour.
I was carried through the streets
and the people all cheered.

The critic's body
was left in the street.
Stray dogs chewed on his bones
and little children played soccer
with the dead critic's skull.

Now we can write
whatever the hell we want
and we don't have to worry what
some pretentious asshole thinks
because he is dead.

2 diet tips I forgot to mention

2011-10-25T17:21:00.001-04:00

Two additional diet tips I forgot to mention in my last post:

1. Eat five or six small meals a day. Or, to put it another way, eat all day long. Graze.

I definitely eat out of boredom and to comfort myself. But if I plan out what I am going to eat - counting calories and coming up with a reasonable total - it’s possible to be constantly eating. This stops me from snacking, binging, getting bored, stress eating, etc.

If I’m not eating right now, I know that in an hour or so, it will be time to eat again. I can wait.

What to eat? Nuts, raw vegetables, protein bars, granola bars, fruit cups, protein shakes… Or even junk food. As long as you’re keeping track of your calories (such as by using MyFitnessPal) you can eat ANYTHING you want. Just don’t go over your numbers for the day.

It was my experience that, as time went on, I would automatically switch to healthier choices. Why would I eat a few high calorie candies when I can eat WAY MORE raw veggies?

A co-worker, unaware of my weight loss, saw all my food for the day piled on my desk.

“If you eat like that you’re going to get fat!” she said.

I had to laugh. I lost weight because I know exactly what I'm eating, how much of it I am allowed to eat, and spread food throughout my day.

2. If you’re trying to keep track of your calories, you’re going to need to measure your portions carefully. Get a good set of measuring spoons and cups. That’s a good start.

Even better: invest in a digital kitchen scale. These are surprisingly cheap. I got one on sale for less than $20 at Canadian Tire.

Long ago, I used to pour a huge amount of cereal into a bowl and douse it with as much milk as looked right. No more. I weigh a cereal serving as listed on the box (a serving of No Name brand granola is 45 grams, for example) and I measure out one cup of soy milk.

Getting my veggies ready for the day, I weigh them and note the numbers into MyFitnessPal. Same with everything else I eat.

The more accurately you track the calories you eat and burn, the better your chances of losing weight - or maintaining the weight you’ve lost.

How to Lose Weight

2011-10-19T15:42:00.003-04:00

I’ve lost 100 lbs, going from 280 to 180. Because of this, a lot of people have been asking me for dieting tips. Here is everything I know. Or at least, everything I can remember right now and put into words.

I should mention right off the bat that the big secret to my weight loss was three years of therapy getting me ready for it. That sort of emotional exploration and growth was definitely a big factor in feeling strong enough and motivated enough to take this task on.

1. Before starting my weight loss plan, I got a physical from my doctor. I wanted to make sure I was okay. And when I reached my goal weight, I had another physical. Play it safe. Do the same.

2. Don’t think of it as a diet. Think of it as changing the way you eat. A diet implies this is a temporary thing, and that when you’re finished you’re going to drop the diet. When you drop it, you know exactly what’s going to happen – you’ll slowly gain all the weight back.

This isn’t temporary. Aim to change the way you think about food.

But don’t worry, you can still eat junk every now and then. What’s life without the occasional treat?

3. Go slow. It took you time to gain the weight, so it’s going to take you time to lose the weight. It took me over a year and a half to reach my goal weight. A realistic weight loss goal is to lose half a pound to 2 pounds a week. Anything more than that is a bad idea. If you are very overweight, you’ll find yourself losing a bit more than that at the start. If you’re closer to your ideal weight and just want to lose a few pounds, 2 lbs a week is probably too ambitious. Aim for half a pound a week.

4. The biggest key for me: write down absolutely everything you eat, no exceptions. Track those calories. And track whatever calories you burn through exercise. There are many great food logging websites out there, but my personal favourite is My Fitness Pal. This website made weight loss feel easy. It’s also available for the iPhone and Blackberry.

5. It’s all about the numbers – the average adult male needs 2,000 calories a day. (If you weigh more than that, you actually have to eat more to maintain your weight.) One pound of fat equals 3500 calories. Want to lose a pound this week? Run a deficit of 500 calories a day. That means the average adult male would have to eat 1500 calories a day to lose one pound in a week.

My Fitness Pal is the fuel gage I wish I’d been born with. It allows me to track the calories I burn, the calories I consume, and find that level I am aiming for. I used to be aiming to lose weight, now I’m aiming to maintain my current weight. I’ve logged everything I have eaten and all my exercise for over 550 days now.

My food diary is wide open, by the way. Feel free to take a look.

6. “Why don’t I just starve myself and lose weight fast?” If you eat too few calories, your body goes into starvation mode. Your body basically thinks you are dying and does everything it can to hold on to every single calorie. Your body will also eat your muscles in an attempt to hold on to that fat. You’ll discover that despite under-eating, the scale needle refuses to budge.

This is why eating slightly less than normal works – you’re tricking your body. It thinks everything is fine, when you’re really just eating slightly less than you should be -- just enough to keep your body from freaking out.

7. Exercise is great, but worry more about what you eat. Despite everything you have heard, weight loss is far more about the food you eat than it is about exercise and laziness.

“Oh, I worked out today, so I can eat more!”

This is true. You can eat more. But how many calories did you really burn in that workout? If you only burned 200 calories in that 40 minute walk, do you really deserve a 540 calorie Big Mac to celebrate? Unless you know the real numbers, you can’t make an informed choice.

I know this from personal experience. I went to the gym for months. I lost 20 lbs. And then nothing changed. I couldn’t figure out why my weight was stuck – even as I ate ice cream for dinner on a fairly regular basis.

On the other hand, I work out on my elliptical trainer and walk a lot (tracking my calories burned with a pedometer). This does allow me to eat more calories than most people. To maintain my current weight, most days I eat around 3500 calories.

8. Restaurants are dangerous. Most restaurants don’t tell you how many calories are in their food. If you have to guess, you’re probably guessing low. (Were those veggies soaked in butter?) Fortunately, some restaurants do provide calorie information. Ironically, most of these restaurants are fast food places. However, it’s quite possible to eat fast food and lose weight – so long as you accurately keep track of your numbers. I regularly allow myself a grande Starbucks soy latte, which is 170 calories.

9. Cheat. You’re allowed to cheat every now and then. One or two cheat meals a week is fair game. In fact, if you’re trying to lose weight, and you have been sticking to the rules closely, but aren’t losing weight – cheating can help. The occasional meal of extra calories lets your body know that you aren’t starving to death. Food is available! Don’t go into starvation mode!

But keep in mind food is primarily fuel. It’s not entertainment. It makes your body go. When you think of food this way, and limit your cheats to occasional celebrations, they actually become far more enjoyable. Cheesecake for dinner every day is boring. Cheesecake on a Friday night, to celebrate the weekend, actually tastes great.

10. Plan your meals ahead. On most days, you know where you’re going to be and what you’re going to be doing. Bring your food with you. Nuts, granola or protein bars, carrots sticks – get all of this stuff ready, enter it into your database, and know what your food day is going to look like. This make it much easier to turn down a coworker who offers you a donut. “No thanks! I’ve planned my food for the day.”

11. Water, herbal tea, diet soda, and sugar free gum can save you. Often I just want to taste something. These choices can give you a taste fix while adding zero or minimal calories.

12. Eating is banking and budgeting. Look at food and ask yourself, “Can I afford this food, calorie-wise?” Or, alternatively, “Am I willing to pay the calories this food is asking of me? Are there better caloric choices I would find more fulfilling?”

A large strawberry milkshake from McDonald’s is 560 calories. Which is (roughly) five and a half tablespoons of peanut butter. Or several pounds of carrots. Which is going to fill you up more?

13. Watch your protein levels. If you’re losing weight, you want to make sure you get enough protein, so your body eats fat and not muscle. I never would have imagined I’d become the kind of person who drinks protein shakes and eats protein bars. I am now such a person.

14. Go at your own pace, and up the ante with time. Maybe it’s all too much to swallow at once. So start your changes gradually. Eat a salad for lunch instead of a burger. Try keeping a food log without changing your diet, just to get a feel of where you are. Ease in slow. When you’re ready, add more effort.

15. If you screw up, don’t quit. “God damn it, I’m supposed to be eating healthy and I ate an entire bag of Oreo cookies. Screw this, I’m going back to eating nothing but junk food.”

A lot of people think this way. They’re trying to change, they do something “wrong”, and they quit. Don’t quit. You strayed. It happens. Just note that you made a mistake, and go back to trying. That bag of Oreos was a cheat meal. Don’t give up. You’re going to stray every now and then.

16. Be human. Allow self-soothing. I sometimes need food when I’m stressed. It calms me down. And I’ll allow for it. I check my calories – can I afford some candy calories right now? How many bonbons exactly? And then I’ll let myself have some sugar to take the edge off my stress.

If I can’t afford it, I’ll find some other way to de-stress – such as walking away for a break from whatever is bugging me. (Okay, it’s almost always work.)

That’s all I can think of for now. Hopefully it’s useful.

In future, I’ll write up a My Fitness Pal specific post, covering the various quirks of their system. It can be tricky.

Why My Local Sports Team Is Best

2011-10-16T10:25:00.003-04:00

Michael Coren has written a book called, "Why Catholics Are Right". I checked out an electronic copy from the library, started reading the introduction, and got annoyed. I skipped ahead and started reading chapter one, and got even more annoyed. I stopped reading. I deleted the book from my computer.

The book is dry, self-serving, rationalizing nonsense. At heart, what the book is saying, is this:

"The church I happen to have adopted, which is the most popular religion in my neighbourhood, happens to be the correct one!"

How incredibly lucky that your local sports team (who you love and support with all your heart) happens to be the best team in the world. Isn't that oddly convenient? It certainly makes your favouritism towards them entirely justified.

Does it matter what arguments are used to prop up this self-serving conclusion?

I don't think Michael Coren is stupid. He's just doing what many intellectuals do -- ignoring the emotional aspects of his being and embracing his own intellect. With the feelings buried, he's safe to work backwards from a desired outcome.

"I wish to believe X because I feel it. How can I make that possible? I will construct many arguments that indicate X is true. And now I will conveniently erase my original desire simply to believe X is true. What I am left with is many solid, intelligent arguments that show X is true. How wonderful!"

I call myself an atheist. I suppose, technically, I'm not really an atheist at all, because I like the notion of a "higher power". I just don't think it's Jesus or Mohammed or any of the other mainstream gods or demi-gods peddled at your local church. Those deities tend to be a little bland and safe. I think a relationship with the "divine" is far more personal and complicated. Choosing Jesus is lazy.

People think I'm kidding when I say this, but I'm not: worshipping Batman as god is just as sensible and good as worshipping Jesus Christ. Religion is, at heart, finding a personal mythology that helps you be the best person you can be. The many adventures of Batman have just as many valid parables in them as the bible.

A good mystic will create a personal relationship with their myth. It will manifest itself in daydreams, real dreams, imagined conversations, art, poetry, music, and so on. Protestants call this "having a personal relationship with Jesus". But if your relationship is really personal, you'll quickly see it doesn't even have to be Jesus -- it can be Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, your ideal mom or dad, Captain Kangaroo, whoever you want. You can even choose more than one. Why not?

Religion is playing "imaginary friends" but for grown ups. But let's be clear here -- imaginary friends are often more real than real friends. We all know who Sherlock Holmes is. In a way, he is more real to us than actual historical people.

This is why Coren's book -- which I simply cannot read -- makes me so angry.

"My imaginary friend Jesus is the best friend there is! He's awesome! I choose him over all others! He is the RIGHT choice!"

It should come as no surprise that Coren's book is a best seller in Canada. The majority of Canadians are Roman Catholic. No one ever went broke telling people what they want to hear.

Coren is doing the equivalent of standing up at a Batman convention and yelling:

"Isn't Batman wonderful? I know not everyone agrees, but he is the greatest super hero that ever lived! I know there have been some controversial times, such as when Batman molested those kids, but that was just a mistake and we're all over that. At heart, he's still the best choice!"

And all the Batman fans cheer.

So what? What's wrong with that?

Next door are a whole bunch of people who worship Superman. They're having the exact same conversation -- Superman is awesome! He's the best! All other heroes are crap! Hooray for Superman!

Ignoring the similarities between your god and the gods of others is divise, small-minded, isolationist, old fashioned, and so very local.

Higher education tends to knock religion out of people's heads. Why? I suspect in part it's because you quickly see that if you'd been born in India, you'd probably be a Hindu. And if you were born in the Middle East, you'd probably be a Jew or a Muslim. And if you were born in Japan or China you'd probably be a Taoist or a Buddhist.

And if you're in Canada, like Michael Coren, chances are good you'll be a Roman Catholic.

I've had this argument with Catholics before -- let's call it "the local sports team argument against religious certainty". How do they respond?

"No, no. If I was born in India, Jesus still would have found me. I would still be a Christian."

They can't see past their personal, local experience. They're like a fish in a particular pond who lacks the imagination to understand a fish in a more-or-less identical pond next door.

As the Internet connects cultures and people in a way never before possible, it is bizarre to see some people turn tail and run back to their local deities, their local sports teams, their neighbourhood gods. Michael Coren is such a man. He is ignoring a larger world of imagination, and is staying at home. He's a fish who could swim out into the ocean, and is choosing to stay in his small, familiar pond.

Or I assume so anyway. I can't read his book. The fucking thing makes me so goddamn mad.

I Am (almost) Canadian

2011-10-12T16:04:00.001-04:00

Last week, I wrote the Canadian citizenship test. It only took me 40 years to get there.

I was born in West Berlin, Germany. Four months later, my parents brought me to Canada. Technically, this makes me a German citizen with landed immigrant status in Canada. I have no memory of Germany. I’ve never gone back there and I never learned the language. I consider myself Canadian in everything but name.

When asked to prove I’m a landed immigrant, I pull out a certified-true photocopy, of a microfilm, of a document no longer used by anyone. Bureaucrats stare at it, scratch their heads, and say:

“We don’t recognize this form. This isn’t the IMM form number XYZ.”

“Sorry,” I say. “That’s the form they used in 1970.”

I once left my wallet in a pants pocket on the floor, and then accidentally stepped on it. My Social Insurance Number card snapped in half. I went to get a new one. The government worker, confronted with my “certified true copy” didn’t know what to do. In the end, she made a photocopy of my photocopy and sent it to a document expert in Toronto, all to verify that the form was okay. It was. I got my new SIN card several weeks later.

It never occurred to my parents to make me Canadian. This is because my parents are, at best, disorganized and hazy. My father, who was German, became a Canadian citizen when I was a teenager. It never dawned on him to get my citizenship at the same time. I am the only German in my family.

As an adult, getting my Canadian citizenship on my own made more and more sense. It would solve a lot of bureaucratic problems. It would allow me to apply for jobs with the federal government. In a post 9-11 world, travel would be much less nerve-wracking.

(I have a reoccurring nightmare that I am stopped at some border and deported to Germany – where I know absolutely no one.)

Knowing all of this, I still kept putting off applying to become Canadian.

Having a German passport means the theoretical possibility of getting a European Union passport. I could then work in the UK or elsewhere. Wouldn’t that be great? But eventually, I had to admit this was highly unlikely. I’m 40. Am I going to drop everything to go backpacking in France? Non, il n’y a pas une chance de ca.

All the same, I looked into getting dual citizenship. I went to the German Embassy.

“You don’t speak German,” they told me. “You have no relatives in Germany. You don’t own any land in Germany. My recommendation is that you don’t even bother applying for dual citizenship. But you can take the form if you wish. It’s in German.” The clerk gave me a withering look, and added, “Do you know anyone who can help you fill them out?”

So it looked like the Canadian citizenship was the way to go.

All the same, I kept putting it off, without understanding why. It was extremely irritating. I was incapable of taking action. I wanted to act, and then I failed to do anything. Something inside of me was stuck, and the more I fiddled with that something, the more stuck I appeared to be.

I’m in therapy, and this topic became a regular point of discussion. Yes, therapy: lying on a couch twice a week, staring at the ceiling, talking to the shrink sitting behind me. It has done wonders for me. I’m no longer a spectator in my own life. I’m taking hold of the reins. I’ve gone from weighing 280 lbs to 180. I’m making choices. Surely therapy could help me with this citizenship thing?

So my therapist and I discussed it at length, and we came to some conclusions.

On some level, getting my citizenship feels like a betrayal of my parents. They wouldn’t do it for me, so I couldn’t do it for myself. They wanted me to be disorganized and hazy – just like them. That’s the family tradition. The haze has crept inside me. I can fight for my friends, and the interests of others, but find it difficult to figure out what I want and to fight for myself.

But lately, with the help of therapy, I can now think about me, take care of me, deal with my problems. A certain amount of selfishness makes perfect sense – like eating healthy and applying to be a Canadian citizen, for example. Looking after myself no longer feels taboo.

So in October of 2010, I filled out the citizenship forms and sent them in. This was a huge deal for me. In January of 2011, I got a letter from the Canadian government. They had received my forms. They would be in touch -- real soon.

The process is slow. When you apply, you’re informed citizenship can take up to a year and a half. Most of the process is invisible – government gnomes somewhere running security checks and performing intricate rituals.

I have always spelled my name NIKOLAUS. On my landed immigration form, my name is spelled NICOLAUS. (Thanks, mom and dad, for yet another one of your screw ups that has caused me grief.) So when I applied for my Canadian citizenship, I politely asked them to spell my name with a “K” on my paperwork.

The next letter I received from the citizenship people was in June, asking for proof that my name was spelled with a “K”. They would accept a very short list of documents, none of which I had.

It turns out that Canadians only recognize Canadian issued documents. My German passport would do me no good. All my Canadian documents spell my name wrong, because they go by my landed immigration document. So I appeared to be screwed. Unless I wanted to legally change my name, all to correct a single letter.

“Please disregard my earlier request to spell my name NIKOLAUS,” I wrote to the citizenship office. I signed the letter NICOLAUS.

(You want to spell my name with a “C”? Fine. Let’s do that. See if I care.)

To their credit, they did as I asked.

My next letter arrived mid-September and informed me that I would be taking the citizenship test on Thursday October 6th at 1:30 PM.

That’s when I started to panic. It was all becoming real.

In their first letter to me back in January, the citizenship people included a booklet to study. This was what they would be testing me on. I tried reading it when I first got it, but it was so boring. Canadian history, Canadian geography -- I’ve always hated these subjects. In part, it’s the way schools teach it. Memorize these dates. Memorize these names.

The study booklet used the same methodology – a stream of endlessly dull facts.

History can be interesting if it’s taught as gossip. And that’s basically what history is. We never really know all the facts. We just have a few documents and interesting characters entangled with one another.

I don’t know how you make geography interesting. All my life, I’ve resisted learning the provinces and their capitals. Now, I had no choice.

Because the booklet was so boring, I did what any modern individual would do when faced with a problem – I turned to the Internet. Punch “Canadian Citizenship Test” into Google, and you’re rewarded with dozens of sample tests. Some are from private companies hoping to sell you study guides. Others are from public libraries across Canada. These sample tests were far more helpful than the booklet ever was. I wrote and rewrote these tests until I was scoring 100% on a regular basis.

Then, fully prepared, I waited for the day to arrive. And quietly panicked and twitched.

My therapist, my partner Michelle, a co-worker who’d written the test himself – they all assured me the test would be a breeze. All the same, I was anxious.

In my crazy fantasies, it’s decided I won’t be allowed to write the test. Instead, I’m forced to do an oral exam with a dour citizenship judge. He sees me as an opportunity to torture some poor bastard.

“Grew up here, eh? Well, let’s see how much you REALLY know.”

He cracks his knuckles and reams off a list of obscure Canadian trivia questions. And when I fail to answer a question properly, he gives me grief:

“There are people here today from all over the world, wanting to become a Canadian citizen. They’ve taken classes. They’ve studied hard. They’re learning English and French. Who do you think you are, showing up here, unprepared? Did you even bother to study?”

When I shared this nightmare vision with my shrink, she saw right through it. It was just another version of me going to my parents, asking for a basic need to be fulfilled, and getting rejected. It happened to me throughout my childhood. It’s what I have come to expect from the world.

But why should it be that way? Was it fair to imagine it like that?

Of course not. If anything, a judge confronted with my situation would feel sorry for what I’m being put through it. Why do I need to write the test? I’m entirely acclimatized to Canadian living. I’ve been working the same job for 9 years. I’m a productive, tax-paying, member of society in good standing.

A judge would rubber stamp my application and shoo me away.

But there’s nothing so gentle in bureaucracies. Instead, I would write the test, just like all the other would-be Canadians.

The day of the test dawned. I was eating my breakfast when I experienced a shocking bit of synchronicity -- CBC radio played a story about the Canadian citizenship test. Recently government bureaucrats made the test more difficult. There was now a 30% failure rate. A polling company, in 2007, gave the test to Canadian citizens born here, and 60% of them failed.

They interviewed a woman who failed the test. Her whole family was taking the oath – they all passed. She didn’t get to take it because she failed.

“Do not tell me this,” I yelled at the radio. “I do not need to hear this today!”

My test was scheduled for 1:30. I showed up at 1:10, expecting to be the only one there. The room was packed with people. Each of us had to have our paperwork processed, then go into a room where we had to sit, waiting for everyone else to get processed. Then, when we were all processed and ready, we’d all write the test together.

I am not a patriotic person. But the mix of ethnicities sitting there, all wanting to become Canadian, was extremely heart-warming. I also loved how grumpy we all were, waiting for close to an hour to get processed.

“This is bullcrap!” said a young Asian woman with a thick accent.

I felt a genuine joy that she and I were sharing our annoyance together, as would-be Canadians.

I sat there for 40 minutes before I was called to get my paperwork looked at. I went up to something akin to a banker’s window and spoke with a young man. This portion of the test was also meant to test your English or French skills. I was hoping this wouldn’t be a problem for me, given that I have a BA in English / Creative Writing from Concordia University.

I tried to crack jokes. He would have none of it. He stonily asked me where I worked and for how long. I told him the name of my employer and said I’d been there 9 years. Then he wrote down some dates. 2007, 2008, 2009, all the way up to the present. He pointed his pen at 2007.

“Were you with your current employer in 2007?” he asked.

“Yes. Like I said, I’ve worked there for 9 years.”

He wrote this down next to 2007. He moved his pen to the blank space by 2008. And then he stared at it. Then he looked over all of the years he had written down.

“I guess you worked for them for all of these years,” he muttered.

“Right.”

I felt like he was going through some sort of process that made sense for real immigrants, but not for me.

“We may require some more documentation from you,” the man said to me.

I wasn’t about to let that slide by. “What kind of documentation?”

“Oh, like a letter from your employer stating how long you’ve worked there.”

I immediately envisioned writing that letter and handing it to my boss for her to sign. That would not be a problem.

I moved on to the testing room – which was actually the same room where I would one day take the citizenship oath. I sat down and fiddled on my iPhone, and waited. And waited.

All in all, testing day mostly involved a lot of waiting: about an hour and a half in total. The test itself was 20 multiple choice questions. I competed the test it in 3 minutes flat. When I was finished, I stared at it, refusing to believe it was that easy. It was. There were no trick questions. I went through all the questions a second time. That took me 2 minutes.

Then I walked to the back of the room, handed in my test, and left. I was the first one to leave.

The most difficult question on the test went like this:

Which province has the highest productivity of pulp and paper, as well as hydro-electricity? And then there was a list of four provinces.

I saw “pulp and paper” and immediately thought of British Columbia. But that wasn’t on the list. Then I remembered on all the sample tests that hydro-electricity was always paired with Quebec. There. Done.

This was the ONLY question out of twenty that required any thought from me at all.

I left the test feeling exhilarated. Soon, my results will be mailed to me, along with a date and time for taking the oath.

Even though the process isn’t complete, it feels like it is. It feels over. All I’m waiting for is the rubber stamp on the form.

And I feel amazing. For the first time in my life, I feel like my life is my own. I get to make choices. I can set goals and achieve them. I’m beginning to shake off that hazy, vague feeling my parents imposed on me my whole life.

I’ve lost 100 pounds. I’m so very close to getting my Canadian citizenship. Are there any other dragons out there I need to slay? Of course. And I feel ready to start slaying them. It shouldn’t be a problem. I am a dragon slaying machine.

Euthanasia

2011-09-07T17:01:00.001-04:00

Friday, September 2nd

As I entered the Civic Hospital, an old man with a wheeled walker asked for my help. There was a ramp, and he was worried he would fall. Could I lend a hand?

“Sure thing,” I said.

“I don’t mean to be an inconvenience,” he apologized.

“Not at all. I booked the day off work. I have all the time in the world.”

I positioned myself in front of him, putting a hand on his walker, so it wouldn’t wheel away. He then began to walk. He’d take two baby steps, stop for a break, and then take two more steps.

“If euthanasia were legal, I would be dead right now,” he told me, casually.

I laughed a little nervously.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I talked to my Member of Parliament about it. I said, ‘If you walked like me, like a dog, you’d want to be dead too.’ He just laughed.”

And he scowled at the memory.

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. All I could think was that I walked to the hospital – an hour walk in the hot sun. I’d enjoyed it, reading a book as I walked. How long would it have taken this man to make the same walk? Days?

“I’m here to visit my sister,” he told me. “She’s my only living relative. We only have each other.”

We took a few more steps.

“I’m sorry I’m so slow,” he said. “I’m in constant pain. My neck. My back.”

“This ramp seems to go on forever,” I said, smiling.

There were four small steps. The ramp, on the other hand, twisted and turned endlessly, like a cruel, simple-minded maze.

When we reached the end of the ramp, the man thanked me. Our journey had taken maybe three minutes.

It was only then that I noticed someone was waiting for access to the ramp, going in the opposite direction. He looked like an orderly, or possibly an ambulance driver, and was smiling in a way meant to indicate endless patience, which revealed just how impatient he was feeling. This orderly had a massive cart next to him, and perched on top, in a reclining position, was a little old lady. She was tiny, eyes closed, either drugged, deep asleep, or dead.

Was he taking her out for some sun? Or taking her to an ambulance to be carted to another hospital? Or maybe to a funeral home?

Distracted by the little old lady, I lost track of the old man with the walker. He baby stepped past me, looking for elevator B, which would take him to his sister.

For the rest of the day, my thoughts kept coming back to the old man who wanted to die. What should I have said? Should I have offered more help? Maybe we could have spent the day together.

When I described this meeting on twitter, someone replied:

“You must not know a lot of old people. They all talk about how they want to die.”

Purple Legs

2011-09-01T13:39:00.001-04:00

While on a coffee break outside, my coworker Craig and I saw this strange looking fat man with one of those walkers with wheels on it. The man was sitting on the platform of his walker, smoking a cigarette, parked in a spot where many people had to go by him. He ogled all the women walking past, without exception. Young, old, fat, thin – it didn’t seem to matter.

The man was comical and sad, if you looked at him in a cruel way. Bald, maybe in his late 40s, he had a troll-like shape. If you put him in a furry loin cloth and gave him a club, made him ten feet tall, he’d fit right in on the cover of some fantasy novel.

When he got up, and started walking towards us, I noticed his lower legs were dark purple and his feet were turning white. It looked like his legs were rotting, gangrenous, possibly from diabetes. Craig and I were horrified.

“I thought he was wearing socks,” Craig said, “when we were seeing him from a distance.”

I’d noticed scabs on his legs, but the discoloration wasn’t obvious until he got close up.

You hear about these things. Doctors tell their patients, “You need to change your diet and stop smoking or you’re going to suffer terrible complications from your diabetes.”

And the patient says, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and doesn’t do anything different. They go blind. They lose fingers. They have their feet amputated. They slowly rot away to nothing as all their veins clog up with sugar crystals.

Here was a man in the midst of all that. His legs were literally dying out from under him. And he just continued doing the same old things he had always done. It strikes me as a slow-motion form of suicide. He doesn’t really want to live, but he doesn’t really want to die. If eating the same crappy diet and smoking the same amount of cigarettes kills him, then, oh well. Everybody has to die some time. That’s life.

There’s some sort of powerful denial at work – even as he sees his own legs change colour and he loses all sensation down there.

“This isn’t happening.”

Then, later, “This is happening, but it’s no big deal.”

Maybe brief flashes of horror and understanding. “I’m doing this to myself. I’m weak. I’m a loser.”

He beats himself up until he can’t handle it any more. Until he’s numb. Back into weakly denying reality.

Even after he has to have his legs amputated, and he wakes up from the surgery, he’ll probably think to himself:

“Now I’m a cripple. This is terrible. Why do these things happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

He never owns his life. He never takes responsibility for it. It wasn’t his diet. It wasn’t refusing to change. It’s always bad luck, life, just the way it is, God punishing him. Some external force, attacking.

He never understands his real situation. Never understands that it was always an internal force, deep within him, that could never wake up, take charge, make changes.

Or maybe none of this is true. It’s quite possible he didn’t have diabetes and his medical condition was something else entirely. Who knows?

The Gremlins of Kobo

2011-08-31T15:58:00.001-04:00

I bought a Kobo – an electronic book reading device. I justified the purchase this way:

1. My niece, Hannah, has a Kobo and she really likes it. She praised it up and down. I swore to myself that I am never going to be one of those old people afraid of new tech. So a child’s love for her Kobo seemed like a challenge to me. If she loves it, maybe I’d better look into it.

2. The iPod and iPhone have totally changed my relationship with music. I don’t want to own CDs. They just take up space. Could the Kobo change my relationship with books in the same way? I love physical books, but there are a lot of books out there I just want to read and then get rid of. Could the Kobo help me with that?

So I went to Chapters and bought one. It has been a love/hate relationship ever since.

When the Kobo works, it is fantastic. It makes reading fun and fast and portable. I have the entire Illuminatus trilogy, three Mickey Spillane novels, and Studies in the Psychology of Sex (a 6 volume set of books by Havelock Ellis) all in a single device, with plenty of room for more. The screen is very readable compared to a computer monitor, or even the screen on an iPad. I can adjust font size, justification, and many other funky options. The battery life is excellent.

When the Kobo doesn’t work, it is incredibly irritating. And there are some serious glitches.

In all the years I have owned iPods and iPhones, it’s a very rare thing when I need to do a “factory reset”. I’ve had to do it maybe twice, ever.

I’ve had my Kobo less than 2 weeks and I’ve had to do FOUR factory resets so far. And not by choice. The little Kobo tells me, “Holy crap, dude! Something is messed up! Do a factory reset!”

And so I do. It doesn’t take very long, mostly because I don’t have a lot of books. Still, it is irksome.

I can’t say for certain why my Kobo demands factory resets. My best guess, it’s because I am using two different pieces of software to track the books I have on the device. One is the Kobo store. The other is the Adobe Digital Editions tool used to track library books. When I synch the device using Adobe, my Kobo panics.

“Factory reset! Factory reset!”

It doesn’t do this every time -- just often enough to make me irritable and paranoid.

“Will it die this time?” I ask myself as I synch, holding my breath.

Why can’t the Kobo be like an iPod, using one piece of software to track everything on the device? Why use two programs? Is it because the corporate bastards don’t want us checking out library books and other free texts?

My Kobo has a touch screen and WI-FI. But the WI-FI is so painfully slow, it’s unusable. Even surfing the Kobo store is a chore. And sometimes the device becomes entirely unresponsive. I push the little arrow for it to show me the next page of search results. Nothing happens. I push it again. Nothing. I pound on it repeatedly.

“Oh,” says Kobo. “Did you want me to turn the page? I was thinking about something else.”

Kobo naps at other odd, random moments too. I’ll be reading a book, merrily skipping from page to page by tapping the screen. And then I tap the screen and nothing happens. I tap again – and sometimes it skips ahead two pages.

Other times, I tap, nothing happens. And I tap. And tap. And tap, tap, tap -- getting irritable, and then suddenly the Kobo works fine again, going to the next page, pretending nothing just happened.

This error pops up infrequently. But when it does happen, I grind my teeth in fury. Paperback books do not make these kind of stupid mistakes. I turn the page, and we’re done. Like magic.

One interesting feature of the Kobo is a built in dictionary. Press on a word, hold down, and it will highlight it. Press a button, and you’ll get a dictionary definition – assuming the word is in the dictionary.

This is a great feature. The text appears, neatly spaced and bolded. Only sometimes, for no reason, I get a dictionary definition written in raw text, mixed with a gibberish of HTML code. It’s as if the Kobo forgets the dictionary is in HTML and reads it to me in ASCII. I have no idea why this happens. The problem is persistent. After one of my factory resets, it disappeared. Then it came back again.

I guess you could say the Kobo is full of gremlins. These glitches create a superstitious paranoia in me. What if I swipe the screen instead of tapping -- will it turn the page then? What if I surf the Kobo store one way and not another? What if I hold the Kobo this way instead of that?

I demand perfection from my devices. Is that fair? Apple products have me spoiled. My iPhone is nearly flawless, by comparison. It never stutters, skips, or coughs the way my Kobo does. I press the button and the iPhone responds. I touch the screen and it knows where I’ve touched.

The Kobo? Well, it’s a little slow and stupid, the way a child might be. And I find myself rooting for it.

“Come on, Kobo! You can do it! Turn the page, Kobo! I know you want to! You did it 37 times before mysteriously deciding to forget how! Come on!”

And then it turns the page and we both let out a sigh of relief.

Even with these glitches, I love my Kobo. I keep using it. I’ve bought two books, snagged some free stuff, and downloaded more from the library. I’ve read one book and I’m half-way through two more.

Not that I’ve given up entirely on paper. If the Kobo ever gets its act together, and shakes off the few gremlins inside it, I might go that route. For now, it's just a useful, glitchy toy.

Animals I Would Be

2011-08-06T18:44:00.001-04:00

If I were a tiny bear
Armed with a great big shotgun,
I would shoot all the tiny bears
Unlucky enough not to got one.

If I were an ugly owl
I'd wrap my head up in a towel
And train a bat to guide me about
With his shrill and seeing shout.

If I were a wise old hare
I'd go up to dumber bunnies
And using logic, math, and prose
Steal away all their monies.

But I'm just a hairless ape
In a world of hairless apes.
So I scrawl words in a little book
And coat canvasses with coloured shapes.

Game Show

2011-08-02T16:18:00.001-04:00

“Oh my gosh! Did I win? Did I win?”

“YES! You win, Mrs. Filchmore! You win! Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!”

Mrs. Filchmore, you’ve won some fabulous prizes!

HOUSE-CROWAVE! It’s a brand new microwave, the size of a house. Lure people you don’t like inside, slip out the back door, and turn it on! The cruel demise of your enemies will keep you laughing for ours. Watch their anguished dance of pain! The whole brutal murder is being captured on webcams, which stream the live footage to the entire world. Listen to your dying enemies claw at the windows with bloody, sizzling fingers! Giggle as their faces melt away! You’ll never stop having fun with HOUSE-CROWAVE, the house-sized microwave of amusing doom.

By HOT-N-CLOT! They’re the sick little company that brought you CABIN-CROWAVE, CAR-CROWAVE, and CRIB-CROWAVE.

Remember: if you’re burning alive inside something, you’re probably inside a HOT-N-CLOT product!

You’ve also won I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST STABBED MYSELF IN THE EYE WITH A PENCIL! It’s the amazing, challenging, and life-altering board game that’s sweeping the nation. Move your piece around the board, but don’t land on the red square! Because if you do, the patented glasses release a spring mechanism that plunges a pencil directly into your eye.

Yes, it’s I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST STABBED MYSELF IN THE EYE WITH A PENCIL! Enjoy it the first two times you play, because after that, you’re blind and there’s no point in playing.

Tired of being ugly, Mrs. Filchmore? That’s okay, because you’ve won 37,000 Armenian Drams worth of plastic surgery! Yes, plastic surgery from an authentic, unlicensed, mentally ill, Armenian plastic surgeon!

Djivan Nesrob is a talented amateur in the world of plastic surgery. Self-taught, working mostly on animals and small children, Djivan knows a thing or two about a scalpel. Or at least he can tell the handle from the pointy bit. Why, he’s world renowned for certain Soviet era war crimes we are not permitted to discuss!

Inexplicably, you’ll meet Djivan in the basement of a slum in Detroit, where he will hack away at your ugly features, and replace them with the smooth, featureless skin of a blank canvas. Won’t your friends and family be surprised when you show them the new you! Careful not to touch those surgical staples, Mrs. Filchmore! They’ll be keeping your face held together. One false move and your whole head will unravel like a discount turban.

But that’s not all! Mrs. Filchmore, the prizes just keep on coming!

What home would be completed without… a 37 volume encyclopedia on the history of genital warts!

One of God’s most misunderstood and underappreciated creatures. Yes, the genital wart -- or condylomata acuminate if you’re a snooty professor, HPV if you love acronyms, or just plain UGLY if you’re human. Take a deeper look at the unpleasant, sexually transmitted little fellow that has caused many a man and woman some discomfort in the bathing suit area. Seen in the proper historical context, these little raspberries of love are quite beautiful – and fun!

Gather the kids around the fireplace on a cold winter’s night, pick a volume at random, and cajole the whole family with anatomical photographs detailing the surgeries that can be used to remove a genital wart. Scalpel? Laser? Freezing? All the surgeries are there for you to discover! Pore over lists of historical cures, such as red hot pokers, cactus needles, cow’s tongue, and more!

And last but not least, Mrs. Filchmore, you’ve won… the sweet, satisfying embrace of death.

Car accidents, disease, acts of violence – there are plenty of terrible ways to die. Not for you, Mrs. Filchmore! No, sir! You’ll be whisked away to a luxury hospital where trained medical technicians will painlessly put you under using the latest technology. Why take chances? Why suffer through a death that’s a terrifying, painful surprise? Know when you’ll die and how you’ll die.

Death, where is thy sting? In your case, two weeks from Tuesday at a clinic in Switzerland.

Those are your prizes, Mrs. Filchmore. Our hearty congratulations!

“Thanks, Johnny… And now for round two, where… Why, hey, Mrs. Filchmore, are you crying? Don’t cry. You won. You’re the winner. All those wonderful prizes. Aren’t you happy? You should be happy, Mrs. Filchmore, you ungrateful bitch.”

“It’s just… my blind, ugly father died of anal warts after being hit on the head with a microwave.”

“Oh dear, Mrs. Filchmore. Me oh my. That is quite a strange coincidence. Golly.”

End.

Boredman

2011-07-26T15:29:00.001-04:00

“What adventures are we going to have today, Boredman?”

“Well, Ennui Boy, we’re probably not going to do much. Basically, I thought maybe we’d just stay home and sit around. Maybe there’s something good on TV. I don’t know. I have some old DVDs I’ve only watched a few times. What do you say?”

“But… Boredman! We did that yesterday?”

“So? What’s your point?”

“Isn’t that… kind of… boring?”

“Ennui Boy, you’re just a kid. You don’t understand. Life is boring. It’s a tedious, horrible, repetitive waste. The sooner you figure that out, the sooner you can give up on your dreams. Life is all about waiting to die. And it’s a long wait, believe me. Now sit down on the couch. I’ll just pop this DVD into the player, and…”

“No! No, Boredman! We’re super heroes! We should be out there fighting crime!”

“Crime stats are down, Ennui Boy. You see that phone over there?”

“The black one?”

“No, next to the black one. The red one.”

“Where?”

“It’s glowing, Ennui Boy. See it?”

“Oh yeah. I see it now.”

“That’s my direct line to the commissioner’s office. He hasn’t called me in six months. I’m afraid Mudville is pretty much crime free. So there’s nothing for us to do. We’ll just have to sit here and…”

RING! RING!

“Oh my god, Boredman! The phone! The red phone! It’s ringing!”

“I can hear it, Ennui Boy. I’m not deaf. Hello? Yes? Who? … No, I’m sorry. No, you have the wrong number.”

Click!

“Wrong number, Boredman?”

“That’s right, Ennui Boy. Just another disappointment in a long series of disappointments.”

“Aw, nuts!”

“Shall I start the movie now?”

“I guess, Boredman. Is there anything to eat?”

“I have some saltine crackers around here some place. Here they are.”

“Thanks.”

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Gee, Boredman, these crackers are kind of…”

“Kind of what, Ennui Boy?”

“Never mind.”

***

Will Boredman and Ennui Boy ever get off the couch? Will they stop watching movies? Is there anything else to eat besides saltine crackers?

Find out! Tune in next week for another unexciting episode of BOREDMAN.

***

THEME SONG

Boredman sits on a hill of paper
Attacking himself with a rusty stapler.
Boredman cannot feel the pain.
They have removed Boredman’s brain.

Boredman experiences no pleasure.
Boredman eats rats and dung.
Boredom so deep it can’t be measured.
Boredom is the opposite of fun.

They pay me to be Boredman.
They pay me to be bored.
They pay me to be Boredman.
They pay me to be bored.

Freud Not

2011-07-22T16:17:00.001-04:00

My friend hates Freud and all things Oedipal
Though his mother and wife seem nearly identical.
“A mere coincidence!” he’ll have you know,
As he staggers his father with a casual blow.
While I’d normally trust any good friend of mine,
I’ve never met wife and mother at the same time.

Kiss-kiss

2011-06-30T15:34:00.001-04:00

Aggravated Stalking

2011-06-29T15:35:00.001-04:00

What is a dog?

2011-06-27T10:53:00.001-04:00

I’m walking my dog -- the bigger one, the hound. He suddenly leaps into some bushes, completely disappearing, obviously after some critter. I yank furiously on the leash, reeling him back in. He comes out of the bushes, a baby groundhog in his mouth.

My dog is chomping and shaking the thing, and I’m yelling, “Drop it! Drop it!”

He is semi-obedient. He drops it.

The groundhog lands in the dirt, on his back, his guts spilling out. Yes, he has been disemboweled. His paws are swimming meaninglessly in the air. His mouth is opening and closing in tiny gasps. He’s slowly blinking his tiny eyes as the darkness rushes in.

It feels like it takes forever, but it’s only a second or two – then the groundhog is still, silent, dead.

My hound is wagging his tail, delighted. The white fur of his snout is stained red with blood. He licks some of it away. He’s giddy with the kill, but now that it’s over, he’s ready to continue our walk.

Dogs are psychopaths.

Picture a serial killer who drags a straight razor across the throat of a child. The little kid gurgles and chokes on blood, then dies. And then the serial killer says:

“Who wants ice cream?”

That’s a dog.

Lunchtime Adventures

2011-06-15T17:13:00.002-04:00

I couldn’t find anywhere to sit at lunch. The weather was gorgeous. All the benches and usual haunts outside were crowded. So I wandered into the downtown courthouse. It’s air-conditioned in there, was my thinking.

The courthouse lobbies are like a peaceful, empty airport. A few people are scattered here and there, waiting to be called into courtrooms. Occasionally, lawyers and judges in flowing robes walk by.

I found a spot to read. A guy asked me to keep an ear out, in case they called for him. “Ron,” I think he said his name was. He was going to go to the bathroom.

As he was coming back, he got a phone call and talked on his cell phone about a particular case.

I listened in. I really couldn’t help it. He was sitting right behind me, and except for his voice, the place was very quiet.

Ron told a story…

A mentally challenged man was living in some kind of home. He flirted with people much younger than him, as he considered them peers, because he was developmentally delayed. The authorities decided this meant he was a pedophile.

A doctor was called, and this developmentally delayed man was given a “penis test” – where he’s shown images of children, men, and women, with a device measuring how erect his penis gets.

The result was that he responded mostly to adult women (90%) with a small reaction to one of the adult men (20%).

As part of the court case, the lawyers got a hold of the doctor who administered the test on the developmentally delayed man. It turned out this doctor had, since the original test, written a paper declaring that such tests should not be used on the developmentally delayed. It’s not an effective measure, with them.

“So,” Ron said, “for his whole life, this mentally challenged man has been accused of being a pedophile, despite there being no real evidence.”

It all came to a head somehow, when this developmentally delayed man was involved with a woman who had children. When she found out about his pedophile past, she dumped him immediately.

“That’s when we got involved,” Ron said into the phone. “We looked into it, and saw there was no truth to any of the allegations.”

The woman had also lived in a home before, and she had records of her own that were suspect. She had bitten a foster parent, once.

“But they didn’t write it up properly,” Ron said. “She was being restrained, when she bit the woman. It was self-defense. The way they wrote it up, it just says she bit the woman. It makes it sound like she was sitting at the dinner table, then suddenly jumped up and bit her on the cheek!”

Ron laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Then whoever Ron was talking to started talking, and he was quiet for a bit. Then Ron complained about how he had to sit there all day and wait to be called on, to testify as a witness.

“They should have TVs out here, or something,” he said.

When I left, Ron was dozing in his chair, still waiting to be called as a witness.

Crying

2011-06-11T18:19:00.001-04:00

Obstruction

2011-06-10T19:17:00.001-04:00

Male

2011-05-26T15:17:00.001-04:00

Prostitution

2011-05-25T20:56:00.001-04:00

D.U.I.

2011-05-20T12:46:00.001-04:00

Without Violence?

2011-05-17T15:51:00.001-04:00

Eye Eye Nose Nothing

2011-05-16T12:53:00.001-04:00

Philosophy of Life

2011-05-10T19:34:00.001-04:00

I want a philosophy of life that promotes personal growth.

A lot of philosophies of life seem to do the opposite.

I want to be a better me. And I want you to be a better you. Physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally.

Most people strike me as terrified of themselves. Or they see thinking about themselves as selfish and arrogant and wrong. Or they find themselves boring.

There are many philosophies and religions and belief systems that insist we look away from ourselves. Look to something else. Such as:

Society.

The poor.

The environment.

Television.

Books.

Movies.

What we buy.

The church.

Some holy book.

Science.

Experts.

Priests.

I want to be able to trust myself. I want to have faith in me. My voice. My feelings. My thoughts.

At the same time, I want to encourage other people to trust themselves. Each of us has a voice. Each voice has something to say. Everyone has a story, a song. I want to convince other people to listen to their voice, their feelings, their thoughts.

Maybe this is why I get angry when people say, “I wish I could paint.”

You can paint. Go to an art store, right after work, by some art supplies, get to work. Get started. Find your voice.

Art is only a small part of it. But it’s a good metaphor for what I’m talking about. Making art. What we make. Our voice. Our creativity.

If we all help each other, we could all find our voices. And somehow this would make the world a better place. If we could all really speak from the heart. Somehow, this would help us take care of all of these other, external things.

It all sounds so goddamn flakey and stupid, but I mean this, sincerely.

Vote for a Person, Not a Party

2011-05-05T11:44:00.001-04:00

By now, you’ve probably heard about Ruth Ellen Brosseau. She’s the NDP MP who was on holiday in Vegas for half the election, and who may have committed fraud with her nomination papers. She doesn’t speak French, and got elected in Berthier-Maskinongé, where 98% of the populace speak only French. She lives a three hour drive away from the riding. It’s pretty shocking she got elected.

How did it happen? The voters aren’t stupid – they’re lazy. They’ve fallen into the sleepy pattern so many voters have fallen into. It’s happening all across Canada.

People use shortcuts to make decisions. It makes life easier. For example, if I want to buy speakers for my stereo system, I have some options:

1. Do some research.

2. Buy the speakers that are the most expensive, and assume they’re the best quality. In other words, take the shortcut.

In this case, the people voted for Brosseau based on what they saw on television and in the newspapers. The people didn’t vote based on what was going on in their own riding. They voted for the party, the brand, the NDP. Little did they realize that their local version of the NDP wasn’t up to snuff.

This election, the media has been discussing how candidate debates are a thing of the past. It’s old school. A waste of time. So much political theatre. Television and social media have replaced all that.

Brosseau serves as a clear example of why local candidates debates are absolutely necessary. If you have no direct contact with your local candidates, you have no idea what you’re voting for. Brosseau was a ghost during the election. No debates. No campaigning. And yet she won by 5,000 votes.

If she had shown up at a local debate, and didn’t speak a word of French, she would have lost. The media in her riding would have spread the word and her election campaign would have died.

People assumed they were well informed. They watched the national debate. They visited the party websites. They studied the issues. Good enough? They voted for an orange ghost.

This is one of the weird side-effects of modern times and modern media. Most people know more about what’s going on in New York than they know about what’s happening in their own neighbourhoods.

I’ve blamed voters and the media. But wait! I have some more blame to throw around. There’s my beloved NDP.

Political parties get money for every vote they receive – even if their candidates don’t win. So parties always make sure to run somebody, anybody, just to get those dollars. In ridings where the NDP assumes they won’t win, they scrape the bottom of the barrel. They get “joke” candidates.

“Does the guy have a pulse?”

“We think so.”

“Let them run.”

Thing is, something happened that no one expected – the Orange Crush across Quebec. Suddenly, “joke” candidates become deadly serious. Brosseau gets elected. And so does a 19 year old university student. And a few other candidates completely ill-suited for office.

Now the NDP has no choice. They have to support these new MPs. Every seat in parliament counts.

“The 19 year old kid can deal with youth issues! And have no fear – the Anglo will take French lessons. These aren’t bugs, they’re features! How refreshing to have real people as MPs, instead of hardened, cynical career politicians. Democracy, don’t question it. The people voted for these candidates!”

Let’s be honest. The people voted for the party, for the NDP. They didn’t know anything about Brosseau. She’s not a feature. She’s a bug.

How can we make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again?

Local candidate debates are a necessity. If a candidate doesn’t show their face, they shouldn’t be considered a real choice. As Brosseau has clearly demonstrated to her riding, when she didn’t show up, she had something to hide.

Parties need to run real candidates instead of warm bodies. What if through some fluke, this joker wins? Consider that real possibility.

Voters need to participate locally. Watching the national debate is not good enough. You need to see your candidates in the flesh, get to know them. It’s not enough to vote for the party – you also have to vote for the person.

My Voice Is A Knife

2011-05-04T13:39:00.001-04:00

Another story in the “Derek Kills People” series.

Each story is meant to be able to stand alone, so don’t panic.

Previously:

1. My Knife Can Cut

2. Strangled Sunlight

3. On The Moon

4. The Hitman's Holiday

5. The Father, The Son, and Something In Between

Part 6…

***

MY VOICE IS A KNIFE

Let me tell you how I became friends with a poet. I’m sitting in the library downtown. Early evening.

A voice says, “Hey, give me five dollars.”

I look up from my book. A scruffy woman, mid-twenties, is standing next to me. Jeans and a jean jacket. I’ve never seen her before. Her hand is outstretched. She’s wearing padded bike gloves.

“Give me five dollars,” she says again. She bounces her hand in my face. Trying to convince me.

“What for?”

“I’m a poet. I write poetry. Support the arts.” She indicates her hand with a nod. “I need financial support. Consider it a small grant. I don’t like dealing with the government. I prefer talking to individual taxpayers.”

“Are you any good?”

She crosses her arms, scowling. “Am I any good? Did you just ask me that? Don’t you know who I am?”

I shake my head.

“I’m Frankie Dee,” she says, triumphantly. “The Frankie Dee! The one and only!”

“Okay.”

“You’ve never heard my name before? I can’t believe it. Everyone knows me. I’m queen of the poets. I won the champion grand slam last year. It made all the papers.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“I’m the greatest poet this city’s got. Give me five dollars.”

“Tell me a poem,” I suggest. “If it’s good, I’ll give you money.”

“No. No way. I’m not a trained animal. A poem recital is an event. You can’t just ask me to bark one out. Not whenever you want. I’m a poet. I only share poems when I’m good and ready.”

I stare at her for a moment. She stares back.

“It’s funny,” I say. “You coming up to me, like this. Because I kill poets for a living. Poets string lies together. They can’t feed themselves. They live on welfare. They go up to strangers, begging for money. Poets are a nuisance. Vermin. A drain on society. Like rats. So the government pays me. I get a decent salary. And all I have to do is kill poets. I make a commission, too. On top of my salary. Five hundred dollars, for every poet I kill. I’m good at my job. That’s why poets are so rare. You hardly see them nowadays. Like the dodo bird. Or the passenger pigeon. You’re just lucky it’s my day off. Or you’d be dead.”

Frankie continues staring at me. I continue to stare back. Then she bursts out laughing.

“You’re funny,” she says. “That’s really funny. You’re all right. What’s your name?”

“Derek,” I tell her.

“You’re all right, Derek.” And she slaps me on the arm. “I like you. Yeah.”

Then she walks away. I go back to my book. In the distance, I hear her. Talking to her next victim.

“Give me five dollars.”

She makes her way through a dozen patrons. Some even give her money. They smile. Not even sure why they’re giving her cash.

***

Two days later. I’m walking down the street. There’s Frankie, cross-legged on the sidewalk. People streaming past her.

“Spare change please!” she yells. Then she waits five seconds. Yells it again. “Spare some change please!”

Her voice is disturbingly loud. Impossible to ignore. Like a geyser of hot water blasting out of the sidewalk. Comical and terrifying. People smile nervously.

I go to walk by her. I assume she won’t remember me. I am invisible. No one ever notices me.

Frankie sees me. She smiles broadly.

“Derek! Hey! Hey, Derek! Kill any good poets lately?”

I stop. I look down at her.

“A few,” I say slowly. “Met my quota for the day, though. You’re lucky, Frankie.”

“That’s me,” she says. Smiling up at me. “Always lucky.”

I don’t know why I do it. I reach into my pocket. Find five dollars. Give it to her. She didn’t even ask.

“Thanks, Derek,” she says. “You’re a real patron of the arts.” And she gives me a wink.

I nod, confused, and walk off.

***

A few days later. I’m at the library. Cruising the aisles. Looking at random books. Frankie comes around a corner. Sees me, smiles. It feels random. But she was looking for me.

“Derek!” she says. Pointing at me with both hands. “How’s it going, killer?”

“Frankie,” I answer.

“Let me take you out for a coffee,” she says. “Do you drink coffee? Espresso, maybe? Latte?”

“I drink coffee,” I reluctantly admit.

“Let’s go then. Let’s be sociable. Civilized. Have a dialogue. Like Europeans do. We’ll sit down, drink coffee. Maybe have a biscotti or a muffin. Or even a cookie! What do you say?”

I want to say no. But there’s a puppy dog quality to her. It’s both annoying and draws me in. She makes saying “no” feel ugly.

“Sure,” I say.

“It’s decided then,” Frankie says. “I know just the place.”

She leads me to a fancy hotel. A tourist trap. Big and pretentious. It has a history and tries to cram it down your throat. Marble busts. Marble floors. There’s a coffee shop off the lobby. We order coffees. To my surprise, Frankie pays. She ignores the seats in the shop. She leads me out of the store into the hotel. Off the lobby is a faux fireplace and big comfy chairs. We sit down with our coffees.

I wonder, will the hotel staff kick us out? But I lend Frankie an air of respectability. My invisible features tame her wildness. With a start, I realize people might think she’s my daughter.

We sit quietly for a moment. Drinking. Something about Frankie changes. Her bouncy eagerness evaporates. She seems smaller. Younger.

“Do you really kill poets?” Frankie blurts out. Her face is serious, eyes wide.

I pause. Then, “Maybe. Why?”

“Because there’s someone I want dead. I thought maybe you could do it. A poet. Do you really specialize in killing poets?”

I look at her. She’s serious. Frightened, a little.

Is she crazy? Falling for my joke, maybe. Or is she smart? Seeing through the joke. Realizing it’s no joke at all. Because I do kill people.

I think back to when I was a hitman. Before I quit. All the losers I’d killed. People who borrowed money from the mob. People with big, stupid plans. People who bet large. With no money to pay. Dreamers. Utterly impractical human beings. They talked themselves into believing their own lies. All of them dead by my hand. Strangled.

“Yes,” I say. “In a way, my speciality is killing poets.”

“Good,” Frankie says. “I have a poet I want dead. I can give you five hundred. You said that was your price. Your commission. Is that right?”

My going price was seven thousand dollars. Back when I had a job.

“Five hundred is fine,” I say.

She reaches into her jean jacket pocket. Pulls out the lining. There’s a hole. She sticks her finger in the hole. Teases around for a moment. Out comes a tightly wound roll of bills. She removes a rubber band, shows me. Five one hundred dollar bills. She gives me the money. The bills are surprisingly new. I pocket them.

There is a pause. Frankie is uncomfortable, suddenly.

“I suppose you need to hear the whole story?” she asks.

Her face is pale, now. Eyes are crazy. Fury raging in her. Fists squeezed tight. The playful young woman is suddenly a monster. Whatever the story is, it’s bad. Dangerous. I worry for her sanity.

I hesitate. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Not really,” she says through her teeth.

“Give me a name. An address. A description. If you have a photo, give me that.”

Frankie stares at me. Her eyes burn. Then she looks away. Tries to regain control. Her face is twisted up like a rag. Teeth clenched, almost grinding. She’s trying to hold it all in. Whatever story is in her head, it kills her happiness. It’s an explosion she’s holding together. I find myself grateful she’s not telling me.

When Frankie has some control, she straightens up. She reaches into another pocket. Takes out a wallet. Inside is a photo. She pulls it out. Stretches her hand out to me. Her fingers are shaking.

I take the photo. Study it.

A young woman, mid 30s, faking a smile. I’m surprised it’s a woman. A flowery bedroom. She’s wearing a t-shirt. Hair cut short, red. She’s thin. Naïve looking, somehow. Confident, but shouldn’t be. Brazen. Like a drunk about to get behind the wheel.

I flip the picture over. On the back is an address. And a name. Clara.

“Are we good?” Frankie asks me. Her words, clipped.

I slip the picture into my pocket. “We’re good.”

“Okay,” Frankie says. “I have to go.”

And she gets up and leaves. Doesn’t look back. The coffee she bought sits there. Hardly touched.

I’m an idiot, I think to myself. I’m being played. I’m a sucker. I need to know who the target is. I need the story. Who is Frankie Dee to me? Why should I do as she asks? Why should I take her money?

And yet I’m going to do it. I can see that already. I’ve decided. Somehow, Frankie Dee has become important. And I’m going to kill. Just like she asked me to.

***

At home, I study the picture of Clara. The naïve face. The big blue eyes. I decide not to strangle her. Just like that. Without really thinking about it. It’s odd. I always strangle my victims. I have the hands for it. I like to get up close. I like not needing tools.

But I’m tired of that routine. Aren’t I changed man? No longer a hitman for the syndicate. I’m my own person. I can do what I want. And what I want to do is use a knife. I want to try out my knife, again. Something about Clara. Her picture. Her short red hair. It all makes me want to cut. She reminds me of the other time I used my knife.

In my kitchen. A kitchen knife. A gift. I tried to throw it away. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Rescued it from the trash. Hid it at the back of the drawer. Is it time to try the knife, again? It feels like it’s time.

I hold the knife in my hand. I study the photo of Clara.

Maybe the knife feels right because of the questions. It’s not just a killing. Not just a hit. Something more. Why does Frankie want Clara dead? What’s the story? I want to know. I can’t ask Frankie. She’s too sensitive. Instead I’ll ask Clara. My knife will get me answers.

I’m excited. I haven’t been excited about a kill in so long. And I’m doing it for a measly five hundred bucks. Practically charity work, by my rates. Still, it feels good. It feels good to give something back. And to take something away.

***

Clara lives in a small house. Borderline condemned. It’s been divided into three apartments. The other apartments are empty. Bizarre, in this housing market. But the house is that bad. Roof missing shingles. Paint peeling off the outside. A real dive. Who else would live here?

I watch for a few days. Get her routine down. Clara lives alone. No job. Or maybe something part time. She comes and goes. Never very long. Always the same hours. Just like everyone. We all have routines.

She’s not home one early evening. I know she’ll be back soon. I get closer to the house. Find a window. Not even locked. I’m inside, in her bedroom. It’s the room from the photograph. A little girly-girl. Flowery bedspread and pillows. Pictures of flowers on the walls.

I hide in the closet. Lots of clothes. Mostly second hand. You can just tell. The smell of perfume. Almost sickly. I wait there, sitting on the closet floor. Waiting for Clara’s bedtime.

I am patient. I am still. I am invisible. I have my knife.

Clara gets home. She goes into the kitchen. Groceries, maybe. Something goes in the fridge. Pots and pans move around. Making something to eat. TV goes on. She cooks. She sits out there, eats. Watches an old sitcom.

I’ll tie her to the bed, I think. Use these stockings in the closet. No, maybe tie her to a chair. There was a chair in the kitchen. Perfect. Won’t have to be too quiet. House is empty.

I’m excited. Almost sexually aroused. I never get like this. My kills are always emotionless. Business. It’s the knife. It’s Clara, the picture of her. The bedroom. Her perfume. Holding her stockings. My questions. She’ll answer my questions. That’s the most exciting part, somehow. Not just a kill. Another goal.

An hour later. The TV snaps off. The ceiling light in the bedroom snaps on. Clara starts to get undressed. I can see her. Through a crack in the closet door. There’s the short red hair. She looks tired. Slow movements. She takes off a sweatshirt. Drops it. Removes her bra. Let’s it fall on the floor. Pale skin. Thin body. Almost too thin. Still pretty. Not that it matters.

Clara is down to just panties. Her pyjamas are on the bed. She reaches for them. Now, I think. While she’s vulnerable. Mostly naked.

I step out of the closet. She turns, sees me. The knife in my hand. She steps against the wall. At first, she doesn’t believe I’m real. Thinks she’s seeing things.

“Don’t yell,” I say. Stepping to block the doorway. Trapping her in the bedroom.

Her eyes are large. Her hands stay by her side. Not even an attempt to cover her breasts. Shoulders slumped. Face resigned. It’s hard to explain. She’s already given up. I can see it. There’s no fight. It’s not an act. No attempt to lull me so she can escape. I think she gave up before she even saw me. She’d given up weeks ago.

“I won’t yell,” Clara whispers.

And she won’t. It’s like she’s been waiting for me. Or someone like me. Someone to come along and punish her. But for what?

“Move.” I point with the knife. “This way.”

“All right,” she says. Meek little voice. A child’s voice. Even though she has to be thirty, thirty-five.

I lead her into the kitchen. I tie her legs to the chair with stockings. I tie her arms behind her back. Clara doesn’t struggle. Utterly compliant. The artificial light in here is brighter. One small window, with curtains. No one will see.

Only Clara’s eyes are awake. Locked on me. The rest of her is slumped. Asleep. Flaccid.

I point the knife at her face. “Let’s get started. What did you do? Tell me.”

Her body slowly tightens up. The muscles define themselves. Her body wakes up. Her eyes look at the floor.

I ask again, “What did you do?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

“You’re lying. You know exactly what I mean.”

And she does. It’s obvious. And it frightens her. More than me and the knife. The memory of whatever she did. It frightens her. She struggles to make eye contact. Clara’s blue eyes are almost white. Her lips, bloodless. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Frankie Dee,” I say slowly. “What did you do to Frankie Dee?”

The name means something. Her eyes flicker. She bites her lip, shakes her head.

Clara starts to say, “I don’t know who that is.”

Before she can finish, I cut her. Left arm. Not deep. I drag the knife across the skin. Almost gentle. My knife is sharp. I make a thin red line. Maybe three centimetres long. Clara doesn’t register it, at first. Then she hisses between her teeth. Blood runs down her pale skin. Just a little blood. A tiny wet flag of pain.

She looks at me, struggling. Not to escape. Struggling to speak. But the words don’t come. I put a hand over her mouth. She goes still.

“I don’t torture people,” I tell her. “I kill people. What we’re doing right now… It’s new to me. I’m good at killing people. Usually, I strangle them.”

I take my hand from her mouth. I show her my hands. One a time. My fingers. Clenching and unclenching.

“Strangling is all at once,” I say. “It’s a commitment. A knife is different. It can go slow. It can go fast. Little cuts. Or deep cuts. I’ve never used a knife before. Not like this. It could get very messy. Complicated. Do you understand?”

My breathing is excited. I try to control it.

Clara nods weakly. Tears are running down her cheeks. I find myself loving those tears. In a way I don’t understand. They’re beautiful.

“Okay,” she says. Like she wants to be helpful. Like she’s on my side.

“Okay,” I say.

I give her a moment to compose herself. Then I ask again:

“What did you do?”

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She shakes her head. Struggling. Like someone with a stutter.

“I can’t,” Clara chokes out. Pathetic. Not stubborn. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask. “Just tell me. We can finish this quickly. You want to tell me. I can see that. Tell me what you did.”

She shakes her head. Her body so tense, the chair creaks. She’s trembling. Like a seizure.

“I can’t,” she says, half moaning.

I cut her again. And again. Three horizontal lines on her left arm, now. Each three centimetres. Leaking red. Clara hardly seems to notice. The mysterious pain inside her is far worse. Some untouchable, internal agony. Deep in her heart. In her guts.

I look at the knife in my hand. Useless. I could slice her a thousand times. Cut off fingers, nipples. She would never tell me. Some internal torture has her. Sobbing and spasming and moaning. She wants to talk, but can’t. Nothing to be done.

And there’s nothing sexy about all of this. There’s no fight. No excitement. I put down my knife. Disappointed. Again. Always disappointed by the knife.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

I wrap my hands around her throat. She goes still. Silent. A look of relief floods her face. She knows she’ll get what she wants. What she deserves. Punishment, for whatever it is. Whatever crime she committed.

I squeeze. Her lips are red, now. Her eyes open, blue again. She stares into me. Grateful as I squeeze the life out of her.

Am I killing her or saving her?

***

The next few days, I hang out at the library. No sign of Frankie. I try the hotel, the coffee shop. The corner where she was begging. No sign. Seems she’s hiding out. Makes sense. Keep a low profile after your enemy dies. All the same, I want to talk to her. I keep looking. I need to ask her questions. Can’t let my questions go unanswered.

A week later, I step into the library. There’s Frankie, reading. Like nothing happened. I go up to her. Stand there. Wait for her to notice me. She looks up, smiles.

“Derek!” Frankie says. “Long time no see. How are things?”

I nod. “Good. You?”

“I’m great. Awesome.”

The words feel weird coming out of my mouth: “Let me buy you a coffee. Return the favour. I owe you.”

“Sure.”

We go to the pretentious hotel. Sit in the lobby. By the fake fireplace. Coffees in our hands. There’s a silence. Frankie smiles at me, encouraging.

“Why?” I ask her. “Why did I kill Clara? What did she do?”

“She’s dead?” Frankie asks. And her fury is back. But there’s a joy there too, now. A new freedom, taming the rage.

“Clara is dead,” I say flatly.

Frankie takes a sip of her coffee. Sucks on her teeth. Gets her thoughts straight.

“I wrote a poem,” Frankie said. “Clara stole it from me. She tried to pass it off as one of her own.”

I wait for more. Then I realize there’s no more coming. Frankie sees the look of confusion on my face. She smiles grimly.

“I read the poem in a work group,” she says. “Clara stole it, word for word. Read it at another poetry event.”

“Just a poem,” I say.

“Just a poem? Just words?”

Frankie stares at the floor. Words start coming out of her mouth like machine gun bullets:

“You don’t understand. I write a poem, it’s a piece of me. It’s my identity. It’s one of my children. Clara steals a poem from me? It’s like she stole a piece of my soul. And she understood that. When I caught wind of it, I confronted her. At first, she pretended it never happened. But it got to her. I could see that. The crime of it. The guilt. She knew exactly what she’d done. I told her I would kill her. Somehow, I would see her dead. She got all blustery. Laughed it off. But from that moment on, she knew. Her days were numbered. She’d broken the law. Not some law in some lawyer’s office. Something bigger. Something much more meaningful. The laws of nature. She took a soul that didn’t belong to her. And she tried to pass it off as her own. There is no bigger crime. There’s nothing worse that you can do.”

Frankie looks at me, now. She’s smiling like an angel. One that has just ripped the horns off a demon. Righteous fury, satisfied.

“Just words,” she says. “Just stories. Just poems. That’s all we have. The things we say. The thoughts in our heads. All we have are words, stories, poems. Reality is a poem we tell ourselves. A story. Nothing more. If you know how to put words together, you know magic. You can change the world with a story. You can talk to a man. When he says he kills, you know he means it. Because you can hear the truth. The poetry. You can ask that man to kill for you. And he’ll kill for you. Because of the words. Because you can make him hear the truth. The poetry of truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I’m not sure I do. But I nod. There is a logic in there. It makes some kind of sense.

“Poetry is all we have,” Frankie says. “We are all poets. Each of us has a voice. We have to be true to that. You’re a poet too, you know.”

It surprises me. But then I think of my knife. Instantly, the memory is there. I’m so reluctant to pick up the blade. Wanting to use it. Scared of it. Yearning to use it. Feeling like I should cut. Afraid. Preferring to strangle. A cop-out, strangling. A giving up. The three horizontal lines I cut into Clara. The letter “I” maybe? I, I, I. My identity. Me. A voice. A kind of writing. A sort of poem. Three bloody flags. Carved into another human being.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I suppose I am a poet. But I don’t know my voice yet. I’m unsure. I don’t trust it.”

“That’s what we do. Our whole lives. We try to find our voice.”

This makes sense to me.

We sit there in silence for a moment. Drinking coffee. Watching the hotel lobby. The people run around. Luggage moves about. And we are quiet. Thinking. Of our stories. Of our voices.

***

Anyhow, that’s how I became friends with a poet.

Frankie did eventually tell me some of her poems. It took a while. But she told them to me. They are beautiful and angry. Words assembled into something bigger. Magic spells. Poetry. A vicious love.

Obviously, I can’t repeat the poems here. That would be stealing.

Ottawa Centre Candidates Debate, 2011

2011-04-29T12:07:00.006-04:00

Political debates are dead, they say. Who says? Well, mostly politicians who don't like going to debates. The politicians bitch and moan. And that starts the media chattering. I heard a CBC radio voice ask, has social media eliminated the need for candidate debates?

I wanted to throw my radio out the window. YouTube and Twitter are not healthy alternatives to real life.

Most elections, I go to as many debates as I can. Not this time. Why? Because Damian Konstantinakos (Conservative) hasn't attended a lot of debates. What's the point in going to see a play if the villain never shows up?

Last election was the same thing -- Brian McGarry attended a few debates then disappeared. Same with Penny Collenette. More than once, I went to debates where only the Greens and the NDP made an appearance. It filled me with fury.

But why would Damian go to a debate on the environment? Or the arts? Or unions? A Conservative has nothing to contribute to those conversations. Those debates are clearly biased against the Conservative perspective -- or so Damian would tell you.

My take: if you can't address the issues that are important to Ottawa Centre, maybe you shouldn't run for office.

The one debate I attended this election was held Thursday, at St. Paul's University. The "bias" against Conservatives was pretty clear. Damian spoke, and the crowd quietly and politely snickered and moaned.

At one point Damian described globalization as good, and you could hear the crowd bristle. He defined everything in terms of the economy and efficient government, and the audience grew bored. He mentioned owning a "three pound Chihuahua", and the crowd was briefly on his side, much to his surprise. Damian suddenly seemed human. Sensing this, he mentioned his "three pound Chihuahua" a second time, at the end of the debate. And that's how he lost us again, because he was trying too hard.

It's not easy being a politician. This is particularly true at the debates. A complicated, intricate, nuanced question is put to you. You have ninety seconds to answer it.

"If you could build a nuclear weapon out of household goods, what goods would you use? Why would you build this nuclear bomb in the first place? If you absolutely had to use it against someone, who would you use it against? Why? And please give your response in the form of a sonnet."

Is it any wonder Green candidate Jen Hunter always keeps a copy of the Green Party platform in hand? Instead of giving us a quick, spontaneous summary, she looks at her iPad and quotes the page numbers where we can find all the answers to our questions. Sometimes she reads off passages.

This tactic has an unfortunate side-effect: it is painfully boring. The fifth time she did this, I heard people quietly groan to themselves.

A political debate isn't really about issues, so much as a chance to examine a politician's charm. Put on a show. Make us believe you're competent. Show us your teeth and your legs. Entertain us.

Personally, I love the theatre. I've had season tickets to the NAC English theatre for several years running. And these debates are a kind of theatre. Politics is performance. I genuinely enjoy politicians who can act, charm, spar with words.

Jen reading from her iPad? Not so entertaining.

Mind you, she did have a few theatrical moments that were perfect. Jen pointed out she was the only woman running. That got her applause. And at the end of the night, she quite spontaneously started to cry, seemingly frustrated that not all candidates got to speak at debates. (The fringe groups had to settle for two minutes each at the end of the night.)

Jen's crying struck me as a very genuine, powerful moment. It took the air out of the room. Everyone was shocked. But she recovered nicely.

Mid-tears, Jen blurted out with a laugh, "Women cry -- deal with it."

And that broke the tension and made everyone laugh.

Only later did I overhear someone involved in the Conservative campaign say he thought Jen faked it.

"There were no real tears in her eyes," he said, utterly convinced, sneering.

I found his cynicism extremely bizarre. Why would Jen fake it? What did it gain her? If anything, it made her seem vulnerable. Being convinced she faked it, for some political leverage, says far more about this Conservative than Jen Hunter.

***

This election is definitely a choice between Paul Dewar (NDP) and Scott Bradley (Liberal). No one else is quite ready for prime time.

I attended the debate, curious to see if Bradley stands a chance or not. I've seen a lot of his signs around, and he's very active on Twitter. Is he a viable candidate, I wondered?

Short answer: no. Scott tried to pick a fight with Dewar, it backfired, and Bradley ended up looking like a big, bullying child.

It went down like this:

The issue of Lebreton Flats came up. It's a bit of a disaster, with debris everywhere and development stalled. Scott took a swing at Paul, saying hey, you've been our candidate for the past five years and you've done nothing about it. Clearly you suck.

Dewar got upset. When he finally got a chance to respond, he said that phase 1 of Lebreton was carved in stone long before he got nominated for office, let alone before he was even elected. Who was in charge of Ottawa Centre when Lebreton Flats details were being hashed out? A Liberal.

Pow! Bradley was knocked back and never seemed to recover from this. Scott threw a few more punches, but Dewar ignored him.

"It's tempting to fight," Dewar said, then didn't.

Which left Bradley swinging at nothing.

Scott struck me as an affable goon. He seemed like a slightly polished hockey commentator. Big and square, with long, free flying limbs, he was passionate and well-spoken, but felt artificial in that way Liberals often do. He felt soaked in strategy.

Scott knew he had to try to knock Paul down, to be taken seriously, and you could see Scott working to do it. But because you could see him trying so hard, it looked like a pose. It looked forced. Dewar is my enemy! Must crush Dewar! Almost like a cartoon wrestler.

And in the end, Bradley came across as all blustery posturing.

On the opposite end is Paul. Dewar comes across as a political nerd. A question gets asked, he gets excited about it, and provides details in his answer that show he understands what's going on. He seems to be obsessed with politics and working to get things done. He's always optimistic, always fighting.

It's not so much what he says as how he says it:

This is exciting! Let me tackle this issue. Here are some precise details on the matter, and how I've been working on it and thinking about it.

If Dewar is faking his attitude and insights, he deserves an Oscar. It comes across as utterly genuine. How can you fake the details that spring out of him as needed?

Okay, sure -- sometimes he can get a bit shrill, almost borderline preachy. And, in typical NDP fashion, he promises us the moon, the stars, and chocolate cake every day forever and ever.

But during his best moments, Dewar makes infinite chocolate cake seem possible.

***

Are these debates a waste of time? The hall at St. Paul’s was packed. People were interested and participating. And yet, from a politician’s perspective, maybe it was a waste of time.

At the beginning of the debate, Jen Hunter asked, “A show of hands – how many of you have already voted?”

(There have been advance polls where you can vote early and avoid the rush.)

Roughly half the crowd put their hands up. Seeing this, we all gasped and laughed at ourselves.

So what were we all doing there? I’m guessing we were there for the show. The theatre. The play of ideologies. The fun of it. We were all politically interested people. We were political nerds.

The politicians had to be asking themselves, what are we doing here? There are still undecided votes out there. We should be talking to them. We should be struggling to get more votes.

I get angry when I hear politicians focused on the small picture. Elections aren’t just about winning votes. They’re also about sharing ideas, engaging the populace, and putting on a show.

In my ideal world, Damian Konstaninakos would go to the arts-themed debate and explain to artists the Conservative perspective. Sure, they won’t like it. They might even boo him. They all want arts grants, and everyone knows the Conservatives are (typically) against funding for the arts.

It would be a tough thing for Damian, speaking his truth to those people. But that's why it would be worth it. We'd get to hear it -- his truth, the truth of his party, expressed clearly. No fooling around, no hiding.

Wouldn't it be great if Damian, and other politicians, were principled enough to say what they actually believe?

Instead, politicians focus on efficient use of their resources -- what can they do to get the most votes? Ironically, it's this vote chasing that gets them less votes. They come across as willing to do or say anything to get another point in the political video game. And that alienates the voters.

It's like a zen puzzle -- if you want the high score, you won't get it. If you don't want it, you will get it.

I think Paul Dewar has captured that feeling. When he speaks, he seems to be having fun. He's in his element. And that's why he should be the winner in Ottawa Centre.

Grand

2011-04-27T15:14:00.001-04:00

Some mugshots don't need to be tampered with. They're awesome all on their own.

Tom

2011-04-22T11:11:00.001-04:00

Tom has not yet been arrested for anything. He's a friend.

Refusal

2011-04-20T20:12:00.001-04:00

Refusal to take breath test.

Prostitution

2011-04-17T16:16:00.001-04:00

Oxycodone

2011-04-11T14:31:00.001-04:00

Cocaine

2011-04-10T14:08:00.001-04:00

D.U.I.

2011-04-06T11:43:00.001-04:00

Charges:

1. DUI
2. DUI damage to property or person.
3. DUI personal injury.
4. DUI personal injury.
5. DUI personal injury.

"Eating Waffles"

2011-04-04T09:33:00.001-04:00

I work in an office.

The graveyard shift cleaner is named Lefty. He leaves me cryptic notes on my keyboard.

I write back equally cryptic replies.

We’ve been exchanging notes like this for years now. I can’t remember how it started.

Today somehow feels different. Walking to work, I asked myself:

“What can I get away with today?”

It seems like a question I should ask myself more often.

On my desk, I found this note from Lefty:

“The sky was meant to help others fly after eating waffles in the lunchroom.”

I read the note several times. I memorized it.

I’m telling you this, because I’m going to go away.

If you’re looking for me, check “the lunchroom”. I might be in there “eating waffles”.

If I’m not there, look up in the sky.

Possession

2011-04-03T19:18:00.001-04:00

Buzzing

2011-04-01T15:12:00.001-04:00

Credit Card

2011-03-30T16:03:00.001-04:00

Fraudulent use of a credit card.

Battery by Strangulation

2011-03-28T13:49:00.001-04:00

Full list of charges:

1. Battery by strangulation (domestic).

2. Burglary to occupied dwelling w battery.

3. Burglary to occupied residence.

4. Throw a deadly missile.

5. Trespass after warning.

Make My Dog Happy

2011-03-27T08:29:00.002-04:00

I decided to make my dog happy.

I took all of the food out of the fridge. One item at a time.

Pickles. Sliced ham. A loaf of bread. Mustard. Ketchup. Salsa.

I dumped it all on the floor. My dog ate and ate and ate.

He threw up. Then he ate the throw up.

His tail wagged like a helicopter propeller the whole time.

I think it was the best day in his whole life. He'll remember it forever.

It's easy to make a dog happy.

What can I dump on the floor to make me happy?

My mugshot

2011-03-25T19:40:00.001-04:00

Took a picture of myself and mucked with it. Seems only fair.

Disorderly

2011-03-24T19:42:00.001-04:00

Flying Squirrel

2011-03-24T14:32:00.001-04:00

An Army of Monkeys

2011-03-24T09:26:00.001-04:00

I’m going to get an army of rabid monkeys and train them to attack children.

You see, when I was a kid, there was nothing to do.

We’d spend hot summer days, sitting around, bored, complaining.

What we needed is an army of crazed monkeys, armed with sharpened sticks, intent on murdering us.

It’s just this sort of thing that brings meaning to the lives of children.

I’ll unleash my monkeys on the hottest summer day.

The kids will scream and cry, running for their lives.

But eventually the children will get organized, form little armies, fight back, learn discipline.

No need to thank me, everyone. I did it for the children.

Those annoying, little fuckers.

Ten days?!?

2011-03-23T19:59:00.001-04:00

Angry

2011-03-23T15:57:00.001-04:00

AKA Xanax

2011-03-22T19:14:00.001-04:00

Karen

2011-03-21T21:19:00.001-04:00

I can't imagine being so in love that I would get a woman's name tattooed on my throat.

What's the story?

2011-03-20T17:58:00.001-04:00

I wish I knew more details about this guy and his charges. That's why mugshots are so fascinating. They only tell you so much.

Domestic Violence

2011-03-20T13:51:00.001-04:00

He looks strangely at peace. I wonder what his partner looks like.

Stab A Nun In The Face

2011-03-20T12:24:00.001-04:00

(Or how I turned a massive blank canvas into a neon sign from Hell.)

I bought myself a huge blank canvas.

We're talking 3 feet by 5 feet, or something like that. Then I wrote the words "STAB A NUN IN THE FACE" on it in pencil. Then I did it in marker.

Dividing the canvas into four, I filled in some colour. And funked up the letters with a zipper pattern.

Now what? Hmm. How about complex dots and outlining?

Too busy. Let's punch that background back a little with some washes.

You know what? The letters need to pop more. Let's outline them in white.

Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Jazz it up a little with dark lines and such.

That white might need some colour. And white dots.

And let's attack it all with pastels. And cover it in two layers of shiny glaze. And you get the final result. (Shot in a slightly different light.)

Here's a closer shot of the finished product.

Give me a lot of money and you can have this painting to hang over your bed and frighten people.

Small

2011-03-19T22:01:00.001-04:00

Trespass

2011-03-19T11:40:00.001-04:00

Cocaine

2011-03-18T15:26:00.001-04:00

This man was arrested twice this week. Here's his first mugshot.

And here's his second one.

He was arrested for the same thing, both times.

Possession of Heroin

2011-03-17T15:45:00.001-04:00

Aggravated Battery

2011-03-16T19:40:00.001-04:00

Child Sexual Abuse

2011-03-16T16:19:00.001-04:00

Poop Dinosaur

2011-03-14T15:02:00.001-04:00

I pooped a dinosaur today. It looked at me, up out of the water. It roared.

I called him the pooposaurus. I phoned the Smithsonian. They sent scientists over.

The scientists studied it. Then they went off and discussed their findings.

The head scientist came up to me and said:

“For this discovery, we award you the Nobel Prize of Awesomeness.”

He handed me a tinfoil medal and a Starbucks card worth $15.

Next week, I’m going to be on The View with my pooposaurus.

I hope it bites Whoopi Goldberg on the ass.

The Father, The Son, and Something In Between

2011-03-08T16:05:00.001-05:00

Another story in my Derek Kills People series.

Previously:

1. My Knife Can Cut
2. Strangled Sunlight
3. On The Moon
4. The Hitman's Holiday

And now, part 5...

The Father, The Son, And Something In Between

I’m at the grocery store checkout line. It’s busy. I’m half awake, staring at tabloid covers. Then this man catches my attention.

He’s in line, in front of me. And he’s an asshole. It’s obvious. He holds his head at an angle. He smiles at people with a sneer. He’s maybe thirty. Soft and blurry looking. Almost smeared. Out of focus.

He’s at the cash, paying. The clerk working the cash is wearing a name tag. “Richard.” The asshole thinks the name tag is funny.

“How are you today, Richard?” he asks, being snotty. “Everything going okay, Richard?”

Each “Richard” is a little slap to the face. Richard, the clerk, is a kid. Maybe twenty. Bad acne. He mumbles something. He avoids eye contact.

The asshole grabs his two bags of groceries. “Have a good day, Richard,” he says, and leaves.

Richard looks angry for a second. Humiliated. Furious. He hates himself. He hates his job. Then the look is gone. Richard has shut off his feelings. He’s a machine.

He processes my groceries.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Have a nice day,” Richard says. His voice is robotic. He avoids eye contact. Unfeeling. Blank. Loathing himself.

Richard, I think. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to shut down like that. I know how you feel. I was shut down for a long time. Not anymore.

I catch up with the man, the asshole. He’s walking down the street. I follow him. Both of us carrying groceries. I’m not big. Bald. Glasses. No one ever notices me. No one ever considers me a threat. I am invisible.

What am I doing? Do I want to kill this guy? For being a jerk? Revenge for a grocery store nobody? Seems extreme. What am I? The politeness vigilante? The guy could just be having a bad day.

Still, I’m intrigued. I decide to go with it. Follow my hunch. Why not? I’m an unemployed hitman. Nothing else to do.

There’s an apartment building a block away. Some kind of condo. The man goes inside. I go in behind him. The man unlocks the inner door. He goes in, not looking back. I catch the door before it closes. Before it can lock. I slip in after him. The man gets in the elevator. I get in with him. Just the two of us. The man pushes the five button. I lean forward, push the same button. Even though it’s lit. The blurry man doesn’t like that. He glances at me. His face tense. The flick of his angry eyes evaluate me. His face goes slack. I have been judged. Dismissed. Forgotten.

The man stares straight ahead. Elevator etiquette. I stare at his chubby neck. I like to strangle people. I could kill him right now, I think. Drop my groceries and kill. But I don’t.

“Nice day,” I suggest to him. “Warm.”

The man doesn’t look at me. He grunts.

End of conversation.

He gets off the elevator. Turns right. I stay back. I feel around in my pockets for imaginary keys. He doesn’t look back at me. He goes into his condo. The door closes, locks. 506.

See you later, asshole.

***

The next day. Early morning. There’s a coffee shop across from the man’s condo. I sit in the window. I ignore my coffee. I watch. Most people leave for work between seven and eight. The man doesn’t disappoint. I see him leave. Dressed the same as yesterday. More or less. Wearing a backpack.

I get into the building the same way as last time. All I have to do is wait. Someone leaves. I grab the door before it closes. Downtown people are always in a rush. They run through doors. They don’t look back.

The lock on 506 is easy. I have it open in ten seconds. Inside, a posh apartment. Not kept up. Dirty. Books everywhere. Crap novels. Mostly pulp horror junk. Looks like a kid pretending to be an adult. Someone who never learned to take care of his toys. Expensive couch and chairs. Wood floors with arty throw rugs. A table. Some mail.

I pick up an envelope. Richard Jamieson. The asshole is named Richard. Just like the grocery store clerk.

I say it out loud, to myself: “How are you today, Richard? Everything going okay, Richard? Have a good day, Richard.”

The asshole said it with such disdain. Disgust. Each “Richard” a little slap to the face. The man wasn’t making fun of the grocery store Richard. He was mocking himself – Richard Jamieson. Slapping himself. Interesting.

I don’t get any time to think about this. Someone starts pounding on the door. Not knocking, pounding.

“Richard, Richard, I know you’re in there! You no good bum! You louse! Open the door, goddamn it! Open up!”

An older man’s voice. Angry. Gravelly.

Did I lock the door behind me? I rush over to check. My feet make no noise. Yes. Locked.

“Open up, Richard! I know you’re not at work. They called me. I get you a good job. What do you do? Throw it away! I’m sick of carrying your weight! You start paying me rent, or you’re out! I don’t care if you’re my son!”

I could wait him out. I’m patient. But the man irritates me. His voice. His lack of respect for the neighbours. Plus maybe I could kill him. I’m still looking for a candidate.

I walk over to the door. Why not? When opportunity pounds…

I open the door. “Hello.”

The man is short, gray hair. He’s wearing a red bathrobe. His belly is huge. The bathrobe is too small. Hardly closes. He’s wearing boxers and a white t-shirt underneath. Bare feet. The toenails are yellow. His face is all angry wrinkles. He smells sour. On his hands are four or five ugly gold rings.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

“A friend of Richard,” I say. “You must be Mr. Jamieson.”

The last name off the mail. It seems like a safe bet.

I motion for him to come in. He rushes in like he owns the place. And I suppose he does.

“A friend of Richard?” Jamieson says. “Richard doesn’t have any friends.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t be here.”

“Where’s Richard? Where is he?”

“He went out. I thought he went to work.”

“Yeah?” Jamieson says. “Well, let me tell you something. He hasn’t gone to work in three days. I pull strings. I get him a decent job. What does he do? He fucks it up. That’s what he does. Doesn’t show. Embarrasses me. Ruins my good name.”

I make a sympathetic clucking sound.

Jamieson sits in an armchair. Seems he’ll be staying a while. I sit on the couch across from him.

“So who are you?” Jamieson demands. “A friend? What kind of friend? What’s your name?”

“Derek,” I say. I lean forward, offer my hand. Jamieson shakes it strangely. He clutches it like a life preserver. Then he throws it away.

“I don’t know you,” Jamieson says. It’s a statement, but also a question.

“We’ve never met before.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m not really sure. I guess I’m trying to figure myself out.”

Jamieson stares at me. Evaluating me. “You’re being funny?” he says. More question than statement.

“Maybe a little,” I say. “I’m going through something. It’s hard to explain. I’m here to… figure out what I want. Who I am.”

“Finding yourself?” Jamieson asks. His voice thick with sarcasm.

I feel my body tense. My face narrows. “Something like that,” I say. “I quit my job. I’m trying to decide what to do next.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jamieson says. “You sound like my idiot son. You quit your job? And he’s letting you stay here? Christ all mighty. Two peas in a fucking pod. Listen. Let me save you some goddamn time. There’s no self to find. Just do your work. Keep your head down. All that feeling shit. It’s garbage. People today are so…”

He has no word. He waves a hand in the air. He looks to me for a word. I don’t help him. I let him hang there. I stare blankly at him. Jamieson’s hand falls into his lap. The silence is uncomfortable. For him, anyway. I own the silence.

“Find yourself?” he finally blurts out. “That’s bullshit. No… It’s fucking bullshit. Quit your job? A man is his work.”

“What do you do for a living?” I ask.

“I’m retired,” he says. “I own property.”

“That’s not work.”

He shrugs. “No, it’s not.”

Jamieson pauses, sizing me up. Something changes. The air in the room goes cold. He sees something in me. A strange smile comes on to his face. Naughty. But darker than naughty. Hinting at something evil. Jamieson mimes looking around the room. Nobody there. Just him and me. He shrugs again. The smile grows a little.

“I used to work for the mob,” he says. Bragging.

I don’t say anything. I keep my face blank.

“You don’t believe me,” he says. “I used to be called The Executioner. Do you know why they call me that?”

“Yes,” I say. I know exactly who The Executioner is. Before my time. But I know the stories.

“What?”

“Yes, I know why they call you The Executioner.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“On New Year’s Eve, about twenty years ago, you killed five wise guys with a fire axe. They were informants. I heard something about it.”

The man smiles, raises his eyebrows. “Do you know me?”

“I know your line of work.”

“Oh?” he says. He gives me a long, penetrating look. “Derek,” he says, like he’s tasting my name. Trying to place the flavour.

“They didn’t call me anything,” I say. “Just Derek. Because I’m not flashy. Or loud.”

Jamieson snorts a brief laugh. Then he’s serious again. Ice.

“What are you doing in my son’s apartment, Derek? Are you trying to get close to me? Did someone send you?”

“I quit my job,” I remind him.

“I was lucky to retire. No one ever quits.”

“So they told me.”

Jamieson leans back. Puts a hand to his chin. “There’s probably a price on your head. If you walked away.”

“Ten thousand, last time I checked.”

The man laughs. “Is that all?”

“So far. I only left last week. Time goes on, the price goes up.”

“Right.”

Jamieson stares at me. He strokes his chin. His eyes take on a sleepy look. He’s thinking the way a lizard thinks. His body cools, goes still. His brain leaps into action.

“You’re trying to find yourself?” he asks. This time, he says it without sneering. “What’s that about?”

I want to tell him. He’s one of the few people who could understand. He’s been there. But I hesitate. I don’t know if I can trust him.

He sees my hesitation. He nods, looks away. He starts to talk, slowly. Carefully.

“People see movies. They think, you kill, you go home, you forget. Maybe the first one is hard. They’ll allow you that. The first time, you throw up or shit your pants. They figure, it’s like being a butcher. Eventually, you forget that they’re animals. It’s just meat you’re cutting up. It’s not killing. It’s putting them to sleep. Bullshit like that. What people don’t know is that murder is wrong. Not just wrong, morally. Not just ethically. It goes against the flow of the universe. Murder isn’t supposed to happen. When you kill… You push God out of the way. You say, ‘I know better than you, God. I’m going to take care of this one. I’ve decided what happens, here. Fuck off, God.’ You get me?”

“I don’t believe in god,” I say.

He waves away my objection. “Shut up,” he says. He pauses, cracks his knuckles. He’s getting into it.

“So why do it, if it’s wrong?” he continues. “Why play God? Why Kill? Because it feels good. It feels like it accomplishes something. You see someone you don’t like. You erase them. You delete them. Repress them. And you did that. With a gun, with an axe?”

He looks down at my hands. He smiles. He sees my hands, as though for the first time. He sees what they can do. I feel a strange urge to hide them behind my back.

“With your hands? You think you kill with your hands?” Jamieson asks. “No. With willpower. You made them disappear with an act of will. You pushed God out of the way, became God, and erased a person from the universe.”

He claps his hands together, crushing an imaginary bug. Then pulls his hands apart. Revealing nothing.

“Only, what was that bug for?” he asks. “What was it supposed to do? You’ve tampered with the universe. You’ve taken a cog out of the machine. There’s a lack, now. The machine is slightly less efficient. Oh, it will still work. God builds a lot of redundancies into the universe. But it won’t work as well. Just a little less efficient. And it’s your fault. And how many cogs have you removed? Dozens, maybe?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I try not to keep score.”

“Each cog removed creates a blank. And that blank wraps itself around you. You become blank. No longer in the universe. No longer a part of the machine. Outside looking in. Apart. Lost. You become like a God no one knows about. That no one worships. The blank. It’s a sickness. It’s vile. It’s a living death. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“It’s not like that,” I say. “Not for me.”

Jamieson leans forward and stares into me. That’s how it feels. His eyes. Big, bloodshot. Digging through my face. Into my brain. He sees something in me. I don’t know what. He leans back in his chair. He puts his hands on his big belly.

“It’s like that for you,” he says gravely. “It’s like that for everyone. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t believe in god because you think you are god.”

I start to say, “I’m different.”

There’s a sound at the door. Keys in a lock. The door opens, and in steps Richard. The blurry asshole. He looks at us, startled.

“Dad,” he says, surprised, irritated. “What are you doing here? Who’s this guy?”

Jamieson doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me. He smiles slightly. If he’s surprised Richard doesn’t know me, he doesn’t show it.

“This is Derek,” Jamieson says. “He’s a friend of mine. From the old days. We just happened to run into each other. Quite a bit of luck, actually.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay,” Richard says, confused. He wants to ask what we’re doing there. In his condo. But he hesitates. He’s supposed to be at work, after all.

“Derek is going to do a job for me,” Jamieson says. He keeps staring at me. “And I wanted him to meet you.”

Richard walks over to me. I stand up. We shake hands. His palm is wet, fingers are shaky. I sit back down on the couch. Richard sits next to me. He still looks confused.

“You didn’t go to work today,” Jamieson says to his son. “You haven’t gone for three days.”

A gush of excuses: “I was just out for breakfast. I mean, I was going to tell you, dad. About the job. It’s just…”

“It’s okay,” Jamieson says, stopping the flow. “You didn’t like the work. Office stuff. Not for you. I know the drill.”

Richard was ready for a fight. All puffed up. His father’s words deflate him. Now he doesn’t know what to say. A little kid.

Jamieson finally turns away from me. He looks at his son. He smiles.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’m thinking of some other way… Some way to fix you. Straighten you out once and for all.”

Richard doesn’t want to have an argument in front of me, a stranger. But he can’t stop himself.

“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need fixing.”

“Then maybe there’s something wrong with the universe. Because you appear to be a cog the machine does not need.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m sorry. Your old man is just being silly.” Turning back to me, Jamieson smiles. “So, Derek. Do you want the job?”

I pause. I look at Richard. I look at Jamieson, his father.

“What’s it pay?” I ask.

“Five?” Jamieson suggests.

“Seven,” I counter, automatically. Seven grand was my going rate. Before I quit.

“Seven? I could do that. Sure. You know I’d do the work myself, but…” He spreads his hands in an apologetic wave. “I’m sentimental.”

And his smile broadens. He’s enjoying this. Planning his son’s murder. Right in front of his son. With his son none the wiser.

I suddenly feel a little sick. My stomach hurts. This isn’t sitting right. I don’t know why, exactly. I’ve been in worse situations. Uglier ones.

“Are you okay?” Jamieson asks me. “You look a little… blank.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“I was thinking you could do the work tonight,” Jamieson says. “You don’t mind, do you? Such short notice?”

I’m sweating. I can feel it in my armpits. I look at Richard. Next to me on the couch. He’s staring at me, confused. A dumb little kid. Living off his father’s money. No idea what his father did for a living. Richard hates himself. Hates his life.

Father and son, I think. Father and son.

“Tonight?” I hear myself say.

“Only if you’re free,” Jamieson says. “I’ll be busy, myself. At a poker game. Lots of friends around. But you don’t need me to supervise your work, do you?”

“What is this?” Richard asks. He senses something is up. An inside joke he doesn’t get. No idea the joke’s on him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing,” his father says. “Just business. Nothing important.”

“I’ll do it,” I say. “Tonight.”

I get to my feet. Jamieson won’t get to me. He won’t push me around.

“Good,” Jamieson says. He also gets to his feet.

Seeing his father stand up, Richard stands up as well. His face still twisted up with confusion.

“You can meet me after,” Jamieson says. “For payment. You know the Elgin Street Diner?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there, just after midnight, with my poker buddies. Okay?”

“Fine,” I say.

Without another word, I leave. I take the stairs down. I leave the building.

Jamieson doesn’t think I’ll do it. But I can. I will kill Richard. Jamieson is wrong and I’m right. Or has he just manipulated me into doing what he wants?

***

It’s after midnight. Almost one. I’m across the street from the diner, watching. Jamieson comes out. Surprisingly well dressed, now. Black jacket, very sharp. Dress shirt, no tie. Expensive sneakers. He says goodnight to his friends. Three big guys in suits. They go one way. He goes the other. He starts walking towards his condo apartment. I follow.

I can see him sensing me nearby. A tilt of his head gives it away. He slows down. I catch up.

“Derek,” he says, savouring my name. He knows me, now. He’s checked up on me.

“Mister Jamieson,” I say.

He glances at me as we walk. I’m not sure what gives me away, but he says:

“You didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t do it,” I admit.

“That’s all right. That’s fine. I considered the situation a win-win for me. A sort of bet, really. Heads, I lose an irritating son. Tails, I demonstrate to myself I’m right. My theory. How killing changes a man. It has definitely changed you.”

I don’t say anything. He stares at me, probing. I don’t give him anything.

“Why don’t you come on up to my place?” Jamieson asks. “We can talk about it. Have a drink.”

“Sure,” I say.

I wonder if this is a trap. Jamieson could hand me over to the mob. But I trust him. Our history unites us, somehow. He’s lonely. He thinks we are kindred spirits.

We enter the building. We get in the elevator.

“It’s like a drug,” Jamieson says. “Do you find? I’ve kicked it. I’ve retired. Given up killing. And now there’s a kind of horror. I don’t want to go back. A taste of it would make me an addict again. That one fix would set me on the downward spiral. We have that in common. Junkies who have quit junk.”

We get out on the fourth floor. We walk down the hall.

He has a bachelor unit. Messy. Smaller than his son’s place. Magazines and newspapers everywhere. Floor needs sweeping. Dirty plates on the table near the couch.

“You live alone,” I say.

Jamieson laughs. “Divorced. Fucking bitch. She spoiled Richard. Made him soft. I keep trying to fix him. It’s no good. My wife. My ex-wife. She turned my son against me. I can’t fix it. I keep trying. It’s no good.”

We sit in the living room. He offers me a drink. I take a diet soda. He pours himself a scotch. No ice.

“It sucks,” Jamieson says, sitting back down. “You get old. You feel blank. Missing. Something is missing inside of me. I’m not even sure what it is. All those people we killed. For what? What was the point? That feeling of power. Sure. But what does that get you? What’s it do? What does it accomplish?”

I put my soda on the table. “You keep trying to tell me who I am.”

Jamieson rolls his eyes. “I know who you are. You used to be a hitman. The job got to you. The way it gets to all of us. So you quit.”

“That’s not it.”

“Sure it is!” Jamieson yells. “Come on, man. You can’t fucking lie to me. I know you. I know what you are. I know what you’re like inside.”

I stand up suddenly. Jamieson makes as if to stand. I push on his chest. The fat, old man falls back into his seat. I stand over him. I make sure he doesn’t get back up.

“I didn’t quit the way you quit,” I say. “I didn’t go numb and blank. I quit because I got tired of who I was killing. Losers. Always killing losers. Bums who couldn’t pay their gambling debts. People trying to cheat the system. The boss says, kill this guy. So I kill him. For the good of the syndicate. To make the mob richer. Over and over. There I am. Strangling losers. It got boring. Stupid. Dull. Then, one time, I killed for fun. I killed a whore. Some stripper. I killed her for no reason at all. I killed her for me. And that was it. I couldn’t do the job anymore. I couldn’t just follow orders. Do you understand?”

“But…” Jamieson manages.

“There is no god,” I interrupt. “No pattern to the universe. No order. No grand machinery. There’s just my life. I’ve got two choices. Listen to the boss. Be a good soldier. Follow orders. Or I can do what I want to do. I can make the pattern. Take control. Do what I want. Live my life. So I say, fuck the boss. Fuck orders. Fuck all that bullshit. I kill who I want to kill. Do you understand? I kill who I want to kill. I’m not a hitman. But I’m still a killer.”

Jamieson’s face is white. His eyes are spinning around. Confused, looking for an escape. He thought he knew me. Now he understands he knows nothing.

“You didn’t kill my son,” he says quietly. Almost hopefully.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to kill your son,” I promise him. “He saw us together. But first, I’m going to kill you.”

“What?” he yells. “Why?”

“You’re not going to tell me who I am. Or what to do. Not anymore.”

I lunge forward. My hands go for his throat. There’s a dance to it. I anticipate his movements. He lunges left. I’m already there, waiting for him. His hands come up, to struggle. I put my knee in his stomach. That knocks all the fight out of him.

He used to be a strong man. Big. Now he’s old, and fat, and slow. All his talk of killing being “wrong”. His talk of god. It gives him away. Shows him for what he is. A weakling. Something to be pitied. A man frightened of himself. A shark trying to pass for a dolphin.

His eyes are big and dumb. He looks at me, unbelieving. He thought we were friends. I was the son he never had. And now I’m killing him. And he doesn’t understand why.

No one tells me who I am. No one tells me what to do. Not anymore, old man. Not anymore.

When he’s dead, I search the place. I find the money he promised me. In a dresser drawer. Seven grand. There’s another five grand there. I consider leaving the extra cash. But that’s sentimental bullshit. I take that too. I’m unemployed, after all. Every penny counts.

Later, I go up to the fifth floor. Unit 506. I break into Richard’s apartment. He’s asleep in bed. I start strangling him. He wakes up, and he’s already half dead.

He’s easy to kill. It’s hardly even worth mentioning.

The Plexiglas Prison

2011-02-16T11:37:00.001-05:00

The Prison was underground, and made out of Plexiglas. It was like an enormous goldfish bowl. I walked through the entrance and was welcomed by a fellow prisoner. He was dressed in ordinary street clothes, as was I.

“Welcome,” he said. “I’m Daniel. How are you feeling? Any disorientation?”

“I feel fine,” I said.

“Do you know where you are? Do you know why you’re here?”

“This is The Prison,” I said. “And I’m here because… I’m a prisoner. But… No. I don’t know why I’m here.”

It dawned on me I had very few memories of recent events. The only thing I could remember was walking through the door, into The Prison. I could remember my childhood, and other events, but there was also an enormous blank. Months, possibly even years, were missing. Whatever crime I had committed, or why I was sentenced, was entirely gone from my mind.

I began to panic, but Daniel quickly put me at ease.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Daniel said. “They erase all memories of our crimes. It’s part of the treatment. Prisoners are more likely to get along with each other if they can’t remember what crime they’ve committed. I just wanted to check if you’re all right. Sometimes the erasure is extensive, and prisoners are left very wobbly.”

“Oh. Okay. No, I feel fine.”

“Good,” Daniel said, smiling.

I looked around me, a little more cautious now. The Prison resembled an ordinary house. We were in a kitchen. Ahead of me there was a living room, and hallways stretching off to other rooms. It reminded me of the house I grew up in, except all the outer walls of the house were made of Plexiglas. Looking out through one of these window-walls, I could see we were in a basement. Just across a small space was another Plexiglas house. How many prison houses were down here?

Daniel, following my gaze, explained: “We’re just one house of many. There are other houses to The Prison, cut off from us. We can’t communicate with them, and they can’t communicate with us.”

“But, why not?” I asked. “We could send text messages to each other. I mean, just by, writing something down on a piece of paper, holding it up for them to see. Then they could write back.”

“We’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t work?” I asked, confused.

“It just doesn’t work,” Daniel said, and shrugged. “Let me show you around.”

He walked further into the kitchen, and opened a cupboard.

“In here,” Daniel said, “we have enough food to last several lifetimes. You can help yourself whenever you like.”

I looked in, saw boxes and boxes of protein bars. Possibly some kind of army food?

“The sinks have running water,” Daniel continued. “There’s cutlery, and glasses, and whatever you need. We’re self-sufficient down here. The guards never come in. They leave us entirely to ourselves. As far as prisons go, this one isn’t too bad.”

“They never come in? Really?”

“I’ve never seen it,” Daniel said. “I hear they come in during an emergency, or if someone has died. But there’s never really been any trouble down here. I’ve never seen any, and I’ve been here for years.”

“Wow. That’s… amazing.”

“That’s pretty much all you need to know. Why don’t you explore the house, a little? Wander around. Everyone is very friendly.”

“Okay, I will,” I said. “Thanks.”

Daniel nodded, smiling.

I walked deeper into the house, exploring. There were large couches, a TV, men lounging around on couches, a stereo system. It was all very open looking and friendly. I walked around some more, and found myself on a balcony, looking down on the first floor of the house. It was hard to believe this place was a prison. It felt more like a dorm for men, who took good care of their home. As far as prisons went, this all seemed quite friendly. Sure, I couldn’t leave, and that was terrible, but it hardly seemed like a punishment.

As I stood there, I heard an alarm bell sounding, and a voice calling out. “Attention! Your attention please! Attention!”

A woman – more a young girl, really – stepped into the centre of the living room on the floor below me. She was maybe 16, wearing a simply blue dress. It looked almost like a uniform. Looking at her closely, it became much more difficult to guess her age. Although she was the size of a child, it was possible she wasn’t 16, but closer to 60. Something about her reminded me of my mother, though I can’t really say why.

“Attention!” the girl yelled again, her voice much louder than seemed possible.

The men of The Prison gathered around. Some were up with me, on the balcony, looking down. Others were on the first floor, a respectful distance away from the girl.

“There has been a change in The Prison administration,” the girl informed us. “And with a change in administration comes a change in rules. You men have had it too easy for far too long. Left here, in conditions that border on luxury, you’ve been allowed to go about your business. This hardly constitutes a punishment. Therefore, as of today, new regulations are being put in place.”

Unbelievable, I thought to myself. I just got here, and they’re making things worse. Wasn’t that just my luck!

“You,” the girl said, pointing at a prisoner on the first floor. “Step forward.”

Looking nervous, the man came towards the girl.

“Bend forward and open your mouth,” the girl said.

The man did as he was told. The girl reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a plastic container of medication. She removed a single pill and with great speed forced it into the man’s mouth. Her small hand actually seemed to go into his mouth, almost up to the elbow, as she forced the pill in as deep as she could. She quickly withdrew her arm, and it was clear the pill had been swallowed.

Almost immediately, the man’s face began to spasm uncontrollably. The seizures were mostly in his left eye and down the side of his face into his neck. The spasms were on then off, lasting one second, stopping for one second, over and over.

“The Twitch Pill,” the girl said, “shall be your new punishment. One dose lasts approximately 12 hours. Each of you will take one pill every morning, and spend your day twitching.”

The girl stepped back from the twitching prisoner, looking triumphant. It was almost as if she expected us to be pleased by the ingenuity of this torture. She smiled proudly, her hands on her hips, her chin stuck out. Who was this little girl, so ancient and weird looking? Was this the warden? The keeper of The Prison?

The prisoners weren’t impressed by The Twitch Pill. At first there was a low rumble of complaint from the men. Then it grew louder. Suddenly men were running, yelling, rushing at the little girl. With a yelp, she turned and fled as the men surged forward. It was a riot! Or maybe a rebellion. Or possibly just an escape attempt.

As people ran about me, I just stood there. I was new to The Prison. Did I really want to get involved in all of this? Did I want to take part? I was so new, it felt as though it had nothing to do with me. Should I participate?

The matter was settled when I saw the door to the prison. When the girl warden had fled, she had failed to secure the door behind her. Men were streaming out of the Plexiglas prison into the basement corridors.

I decided that if there was an opportunity to escape, I should go for it. I rushed down to the first floor, out the door, and into the halls. The other men were long gone, and the hallways were silent. Which way did they go? Which way should I go?

In front of me, to the left, was an elevator. The girl warden had almost certainly taken the elevator out. I was tempted to go that way, but there was a camera mounted above the elevator. If I stepped in that direction, the camera would see me. If they got me on tape, and the uprising was quashed, what would happen? They’d see I attempted to escape. I would be seen as one of the troublemakers. That wasn’t something I wanted to face.

There was a door to my right, away from the camera. I could go that way. As I approached it, I could see some kind of mechanical room or boiler room. It was dark and there was a furnace and hot water tanks and other complex machinery. Was this how the prisoners escaped?

I stepped into the darkness, and in front of me I saw, maybe ten feet away, a giant cyclops, wearing a hard hat, bumbling through the dark. His flesh was light blue, and he wore a pair of dark blue overalls, with no shirt. The cyclops’ expression was of stupid rage. There was no source for the emotion – it was the one he always carried.

I ducked back. There was a hard hat on the wall. For a moment, I considered putting it on. Perhaps if I wore one, the cyclops would allow me to pass safely, mistaking me for a fellow worker. But that idea seemed idiotic.

As I watched the cyclops, he turned left, stumbling along. Like a character in a video game, he seemed to have a patrol he had to follow, in a very specific pattern. It would be easy to sneak past him – or so I thought. When I slipped past this first cyclops, I ran into a second, identical one, headed straight for me.

I quickly retreated back to the elevator.

And that’s where I found myself stuck, trying to figure out what to do next. Risk being seen by the camera? Or confront the two monster men and face their idiotic wrath?

Nonsense Poem

2010-12-08T15:52:00.001-05:00

Skeletons, licked clean by bears,
Dance on a tower of electric chairs.
The bears, who licked those skeletons,
Slowly devolve into gelatin.

Hitman's Holiday

2010-11-16T16:14:00.001-05:00

Much to my surprise, this has turned into a series, of sorts. The stories are designed to both stand alone, but also tie together. I'm calling the saga Derek Kills People.

The previous stories:

1. My Knife Can Cut
2. Strangled Sunlight
3. On The Moon

And now, number 4....

Hitman's Holiday

“I can’t do this anymore,” I tell the boss.

“Do what, Derek?” he asks, pretending not to know.

“I can’t do my job anymore. I can’t do it. I’m done. It’s too much.”

The boss sighs. He leans back in his chair. Thinking. Staring at me.

We’re in a pool hall, a back corner table. It’s one of the places we meet. Dark, shadowy. The syndicate owns the pool hall. They own strip joints. Bars. Restaurants.

The boss assigns me targets. I find them. I strangle them. I kill people. I can’t remember how many I’ve killed. Maybe 25 people, now. I’m not sure. I remember some of them. Most, I forget.

The boss is still staring.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I repeat.

“Listen,” the boss says. “I get it. You’ve been doing this a long time. You’ve never had a vacation. Take some time. Two weeks. A month, if you want. Go somewhere nice. A hot beach. Or something cultural. France. See some art galleries.”

“A vacation isn’t going to help.”

“You’re tired,” the boss says.

“I’m not tired. It’s not like that.”

“I’ve had other workers like you,” he says. “You’re one of the best. No questions. Efficient. You do the job right. So you feel off, now. I’ve been using you too much.”

“I’m not tired. I don’t feel off. It’s not like that.”

The boss looks at me, curious. “What, then?”

“I’m starting to like it too much,” I say. My words almost turn into a sob at the end. I quickly re-establish control.

But the boss sees it. He hears it. He pinches his lower lip. Stares at me.

“You like it too much,” he says, weighing the words.

I decide to be honest. The boss has always been good to me.

“I used to be cold,” I say. “I used to be blank. Something is changing, inside me. It’s like a thaw. The ice is breaking apart. And I don’t know what to do. I can’t have feelings and do my job. I have to be detached. When I have someone’s throat in my hands. I love it. I enjoy it. That’s the only time I’m happy. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You love your job,” the boss suggests.

“That’s not it at all,” I say. And again, there’s an emotional croak. A croak, that I quickly crush.

The boss rubs his chin. He leans in and he whispers. “You love killing. Strangling.”

I nod.

“And it scares you,” he suggests.

I nod again.

The boss leans back. “Take a vacation. A month. Give yourself some time off. You’ve earned it. Come back then. Tell me how you feel. See if you feel the same way. If you still want to quit, you quit. We’ll try something else. Give you another job. You’re reliable. There are other things to do in the syndicate.”

“I don’t know how to go on holiday. I’ve never done it before.”

“Not even as a kid?”

I shake my head. I consider talking about my childhood. Then I change my mind. I stay quiet.

“No wonder you’re so tense. Okay. I’ll set something up. Get you tickets. A resort. A beach. White sand. Lots of chicks in bikinis. Booze. If you can’t figure out what to do, look around. Copy other people. Do what they do. Okay?”

The boss has never led me wrong before. “Okay,” I say.

***

Everyone is sitting on the beach. On towels. So I steal a towel from my room and join them. My towel turns out to be too small. So I throw it away. I sit on the sand. It’s too hot. I don’t like the sun. The sand hurts my feet. And I feel exposed. Out in the open. Nowhere to hide. I feel ridiculously pale. It’s too noisy. The smell of the ocean makes me feel sick. After ten minutes, I go back inside.

There’s a restaurant bar off the lobby. It’s bright and cheery. I hate the look of it. Wandering through the hotel, I find a second bar. I don’t know why it’s there. Hidden on the third floor. It looks like where the serious drinkers go. It’s quiet and dark. More intimate. Bamboo walls. I find a corner seat. A waiter comes by and I order a diet cola. Later, a burger and fries.

I sit. I stare at nothing. I drink diet cola. I think about nothing. Eventually it gets late. I go to my room and I sleep.

I get up in the morning. I go back to the secret bar. They’re serving breakfast. Hardly anyone is there. Everyone is in the main bar, off the lobby. I eat bacon and eggs. I drink coffee. Then I walk around inside the hotel. I check out the shops. I go back to the bar. I have lunch. I walk around the inside of the hotel again. Nothing to see. I go back to the bar. I have dinner. I sit around. I go to bed.

I do this for three days. I eat the same thing at each meal. The wait staff look at me funny. They find me mysterious and weird. I don’t give a shit.

I’m having lunch. A burger and fries. Diet cola. And I mull over my boredom. I think to myself. Wow. This is what it’s like to work in an office. Same thing every day. Sitting. Waiting for time to go by. How do people do this?

A woman across the room is watching me. I notice her staring, discretely. Not sexual. More evaluating. I know the look. She’s sizing me up. I carefully pretend not to notice her. At the same time, I watch her watching me. She doesn’t seem like a threat. Who knows for sure? Did the boss decide to get rid of me? Send me on holidays. Get my guard down. Send someone to rub me out. I know too much. I literally know where the bodies are buried.

The woman is not wearing a uniform. But I can tell she’s hotel staff. Or trying to pass for staff. She doesn’t have that wide-eyed tourist look. A white blouse, loose scarf. Jeans. Cowboy boots. She’s slightly older than me. Functional. Proud. Efficient. Lean.

She watches me for maybe ten minutes. Then she comes over.

“Hello,” she says. “How are things?”

Something about her seems sparkly. But she’s toning it down for my benefit. She’s trying to speak my language.

“Fine,” I say flatly. “Nothing beats a burger and an icy Coke.”

“Enjoying yourself?”

“In my own way.”

“You’re not really the vacationing type,” she says. “I can see that.”

I shrug. “I’m not sure what to do,” I admit.

“I’m Nancy. I work for the hotel.”

“Derek,” I say.

We shake hands. Her handshake is firm, real. No girly crap.

“They call me for the tough cases,” Nancy said. “Tough cases like you. May I sit down?”

She sits before I can say anything.

“Am I a tough case?” I ask.

“One of the toughest. Four different staff called me. That never happens.”

“I’m being watched,” I joke, without joking.

“Sort of. We want our clients to be happy. We’re not religious about it or anything. Happy customers are repeat customers. Happy customers tell their friends they had a good time. So if we make people happy, we make more money. I don’t say this to most people. But with you, bluntness. I sense you appreciate that. Anyway. This place might look like paradise. But we’re a business. So when employees see someone unhappy, I get a call. In your case, four calls.”

“Sorry to be such a bother. I’m not unhappy.”

“You’re not unhappy,” Nancy says. “That’s exactly it. That’s the problem. You’re not happy. You’re not unhappy. You’re just you.”

She taps a fingernail against her teeth. She stares at me. I am a problem. She’s going to solve it.

***

Next morning, Nancy and I get in a touring van. She’s behind the wheel. I’m next to her. The van seats twelve. There’s just the two of us. It’s early. The air is already hot.

“I think you’ll like this,” she says. “Not everyone would. So it’s just the two of us.”

She starts the van. We drive off.

I have no idea where we’re going. Nancy wants it to be a surprise. I still don’t trust her. This could be a hit. But I’m so bored. I welcome the distraction. I’m sure I could take her, if I had to. Her throat is slim. Easy to crush. If she has a weapon, I can deal with it.

We drive for maybe 20 minutes. We go off a paved road on to a rougher track. There’s a gate of some kind. Rusted metal arch. Lettering on the arch. But I don’t know the local language. And some of the letters are missing. We’re past it before I can read the words.

We pull into a huge parking lot. It’s empty. The yellow lines on the ground are faded and worn. The pavement is buckled. Unkempt. Nearby are ticket booths, boarded up. In the distance, a dead rollercoaster. Other rides. Even from here I see they’re rusted and falling apart. Booths and buildings. All abandoned. It’s quiet except for the sound of birds.

“It was supposed to be part of the resort,” Nancy says. “It was open for a year. Then there was some legal battle. The place got shut down. Money fell through. It’s all still being fought over in the courts. Meanwhile, this place has been empty for years. Over a decade. There was a casino, a zoo. Rides. All of it a shambles.”

I don’t say anything. I walk towards the turnstiles. Nancy follows me. There’s an open gate. I step through. A sign shows a map. It’s peeling, illegible. Someone has spray-painted a scrawl on it. A statue of a clown is on the ground. Meant to greet us, he looks mugged. The face is half smashed apart.

I choose a path at random. I start walking. Nancy follows behind me. We pass all sorts of strange, rotting buildings. Each was once painted with clowns. Lions. All sorts of amusements. Stuffed toy animals, muddy and lost, watch us. Prizes for some game. Now dead and decaying.

Nancy says, “Locals come here. Mostly teenagers. At night. They drink. They climb the rollercoaster. They dare each other to enter the haunted house. Funny, to think of a fake haunted house, abandoned and haunted. There’s a hall of mirrors. All the mirrors are shattered. Broken mirror all over the ground. Sculptures of clowns and mermaids. Broken and rotting. It’s all beautiful, in its own way. Empty zoo cages. The casino. The roulette wheels are still there. Some of them still spin.”

I stop. I don’t look at Nancy. I stare off into the distance.

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.

“Your inability to have fun. You being a tough case. It reminded me of this place. A forgotten, rotting playground. I thought you’d enjoy it somehow. That it would touch you. I find this place beautiful. In its own way. I thought you’d see the beauty of it.”

“I do see the beauty,” I admit. “I wish I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“It hurts. I hurts me inside. I don’t know why. Just being here.”

I fall silent.

“Do you want to leave?” Nancy asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “No. I guess not.”

I walk along. I look at things. Nancy trails behind me, saying nothing.

I ache inside. In my chest. Something about this place. Fun gone to rot. Playfulness strangled by weeds. It’s inside of me. A crucified childhood. That’s what it feels like. A rotting child on a cross. I am that child.

Somehow, we end up at the zoo. Maybe I was going there all along. Empty cages. Six in total. All the animals gone. Bare concrete inside. I stop in front of a cage. A sign shows a weather-worn painting of a tiger.

“What did they do with the animals?” I ask.

“Sold them,” Nancy says. “To collectors. Other zoos.”

“Too bad. I wish they’d been set free.”

Nancy laughs gently. “No, that didn’t happen.”

I walk over to the tiger cage door. It’s open. I step inside. I walk around the inside of the cage. It smells damp in here. The cage feels so very empty. Dead. More like a tomb than a cage. Something died here. The tiger died. Why do I think that? Silly. Probably sold it. Somehow, that’s worse than death. If it died, it’s finished. A tiger sold is a slave. Is there anything sadder than a tiger bought and sold?

I look out through the bars. I look at Nancy. She’s just outside my cage. I imagine wrapping my hands around her throat. Strangling her. She gives me a grim little smile. I quickly step out again.

“We can leave now,” I tell her.

We walk back to the van. She starts it up. We head back to the resort. She gives me a funny look.

“Did you have a good time?” she asks. The words sound wrong, and she knows it. She doesn’t know how to talk about it. Something happened, and she doesn’t understand.

I don’t understand either. Something has changed.

“Yes. I did. I had a good time. I’ll tell all my friends to come to your resort. Except I don’t have any friends.”

We drive back in silence.

When we get back, I shake Nancy’s hand again.

“That was very interesting,” I say. “You’re good at your job.”

“Thanks, I guess,” she answers. “See you around?”

I nod.

I go back to my room. I call the airport. I make up a story about a death in the family. I arrange to swap my tickets for a flight leaving that afternoon.

I was supposed to stay a month. I’m leaving after less than a week. Some vacation.

***

“I quit,” I tell the boss. “All of it. I quit. The whole syndicate. I’m out.”

“You can’t quit,” he says. “No one quits the syndicate. No one.”

“I quit,” I repeat. “I’m grateful for everything. But I quit.”

The boss leans back in his chair. He’s silent. We listen to the sound of people playing pool all around us.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” he whispers. “Nobody quits. Anyone who quits somehow gets killed.”

“I know. I’m the guy that does the killing. Who are you going to send after me? You can’t send me after myself. I’m sick of that game. I’m not doing that anymore. I’m tired of crushing my own throat.”

“There are others. Other killers.”

“Fine. Send them. See what happens. No hard feelings.”

I get to my feet, slowly. No sudden movements. I hold out my hand. The boss takes it, reluctantly. We shake hands. We seem to have reached an uneasy agreement. I’m going to quit. He’s going to try having me killed.

“Where are you going to go?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

I think about it. I smile. Then I say, “I’m going to work for a zoo. Cleaning cages. I’ll wait until no one is around. Until no one is looking. And I’ll set all the tigers free.”

I turn around and walk out. Out of the pool hall. Out of my cage. Before the boss can say anything else.

I breathe deeply on the street. It’s late. The air is wet and alive.

I’m a tiger, I realize. I’m free. I won’t kill for money anymore. I’ll only kill for me. For my pleasure. I am free and I can kill whoever I want.

I'm Not Sensitive, I'm Big Boned!

2010-10-28T06:10:00.003-04:00

Maura Kelly writes a blog at Marie Claire. She made the faux pas of admitting she finds fat people kind of unpleasant looking. It’s not just the idea of watching two fat people make out – even watching a morbidly obese person walk through a room strikes her as kind of gross. It gives her the same feeling as looking at a drunk stumbling by, or a heroin addict passed out in a chair. Being fat is something you can control. Sure, it’s tough. Maura will admit that much. But you can control your weight, if you try.

Her blog post has resulted in an explosion of indignant rage across teh intarwebs:

How dare she be size-ist! Why, she’s nothing but a bully! This is a perfect example of how the fashion industry is biased against overweight folks!

The reaction caught Maura by surprise. She quickly penned an apology, and attached it to her original blog post.

That hasn’t helped. “Apology not accepted!” wrote one commenter. Another went so far as to demand she be fired.

Yoni Freedhoff -- an Ottawa nutritionist who I respect -- says it’s “the vilest, most weight biased article I’ve ever read.”

Someone on Yoni’s blog commented, “Imagine if you substituted the word ‘black’ or ‘muslim’ for the word fat?”

Seriously?

What the hell is going on here? I don’t get it. The seething, indignant fury is way over the top. What exactly did Maura Kelly do wrong? Don’t we all agree that being overweight is something best avoided?

***

I’ve had weight issues my whole life, ever since childhood. Or, to put it less politely, I have been fat. Very fat.

“You’re very close to becoming morbidly obese,” my family doctor once warned me. “You need to lose some weight.”

I understood exactly what she meant. I was at risk for stroke, heart attack, diabetes, and all those other preventable medical problems.

And I also understood that being morbidly obese is unattractive – at least in our cultural and historical context.

Mind you, I didn’t let my doctor’s warning change my eating habits. I was going to the gym. I figured that was good enough. It wasn’t. When not at the gym, I did things like eat ice cream for dinner. After going to the gym five days a week, for several months, I quickly burned out. And I quit going.

Meanwhile, I was having stress symptoms at work. Numb and tingly hands and feet, my nose going cold, borderline panic attacks – it was all too much. A nurse at my doctor’s office had this helpful advice:

“Maybe you need to see a therapist.”

If only someone had suggested that sooner. Because therapy changed my life. Suddenly, at age 40, I learned how to tackle my problems. I learned about me, and how I was missing from my own life.

Therapy taught me to take care of myself – something I never really did before. After getting my relationships in order, and tackling my financial problems, I looked around for other issues to deal with. That’s when I remembered – I was grotesquely fat.

I started food and exercise logging – writing down everything I eat and tracking my calorie intake and output. I found a website, My Fitness Pal, which proved to be extremely helpful. I turned to protein bars and protein shakes to fill out my diet. Most of what I eat now is fruits and vegetables, with the occasional “cheat meal” to remind myself I am still alive.

I started eating better in April. And now, in October, I am 65 pounds lighter. I went from weighing 280 pounds to 215 pounds. My goal is to reach 200 pounds, and then maintain the weight loss. I am certain I will do just that.

Let me stress this: without therapy, I never would have been able to lose the weight. Low self-esteem and emotional problems were keeping me trapped in fat. Overeating was a form of self-medicating – exactly the same way some alcoholics and drug addicts self-medicate. Therapy changed all that.

***

So, fat people – did you know you’re at risk for medical problems? Of course. And you know you’re a burden on the medical system – or may soon be? Right. You knew that. And you know people in our society find fat people less attractive than thin people, right? I bet that one is no surprise. And you know if you eat better and exercise more, you can lose weight, right? Of course you did. It’s not easy to do, but you know it, right? None of this is news to you.

So why is what Maura Kelly wrote coming as a huge shock? Why the offense? What she wrote is hardly news. It’s not even particularly insightful.

Okay, okay – she writes for a woman’s magazine. The fashion industry is Satan. I get that.

I’ve always been attracted to chubby women. I find scrawny “fashion model” women repulsive. I want a woman with heft to her. I am stunned at what the fashion industry calls a “plus-sized model”, because to me they don’t even look chubby. They look normal. Give me chubby, any day. Personally, I have no trouble watching two fat people kissing – unlike Maura Kelly.

My philosophy, back when I was dating, was, “If I meet someone, and she doesn’t strike me as physically attractive, give her a chance. Her personality could change my opinion. Genuine attraction is beyond the physical. Maybe we’ll click on a deeper level.”

But at some point, I don’t care what your personality is like. There’s chubby, and then there’s morbidly obese. At some degree of fatness, you reach a state where your personality simply cannot shine through to me. I’m human, and I have to say, no. I think every person has a point where they say, “Sorry, you’re just too fat for me.”

Is that offensive and shocking and terrible? I’ve probably been that fat – where people couldn’t see me for who I am. They just saw a fat man. Does that change the truth of what I’m saying?

***

P.J. O’Rourke once jokingly said it best. (I will paraphrase.) Don’t insult people based on weight, their physical appearance, or their handicaps. Save those insults for a special occasion. Because when you really want to hurt someone, nothing is more cruel than calling them a fat, ugly, crippled fuck.

Why is the obvious so insulting? Is it because we politely tiptoe around it constantly? People are so sensitive about their weight – we better not mention it. If we find them ugly, gross, embarrassing, or depressing, we should keep it to ourselves.

Fat people often complain that you can’t pick on anyone anymore – not for their race, or their religion, or their intelligence – but you can still pick on fat people. The obese are still fair game. Is this reasonable?

Jezebel, a feminist blog, comments on the Maura Kelly kerfuffle and asks:

“…how could she not know this [outrage] would happen? How could she think this was acceptable? It's that, as much as anything else, that's worrisome: that at a mainstream magazine with a wide reach and an ostensibly progressive outlook could think, in 2010, this was okay to write and implicitly endorse.”

I think of myself as a left-leaning, sensitive male. But I find Jezebel’s comments somewhat shocking. When did progressive come to mean politely tiptoeing around the obvious? Most people find fat people unattractive. Hell, fat people find fat people unattractive! Didn’t we know this already? Are we supposed to pretend this isn’t the world we live in?

***

Here in Ottawa, we’ve gone smoke free. It’s been that way for years. The restaurants and public spaces don’t allow smokers to light up. But back in the day, when the laws were still being debated, groups of people came together under the banner of “smoker’s rights”. Some of their arguments were just as surreal as what I’m hearing now about the obese.

“We’re not second class citizens! We choose to smoke! You can’t pick on us for that! We deserve respect!”

Ah, but smoking is bad for you. It’s a drain on our medical system. Everyone knows it’s bad for you, so why should we make accommodations for your addiction? Show some will power, and quit.

Of course, by the time we created anti-smoking policies, smokers were very much in the minority, so their complaints fell on deaf ears.

Do we have to be gentler with the overweight, because they make up the majority?

On The Moon

2010-10-25T15:50:00.001-04:00

I’m not wearing a space suit. I can breathe just fine. The ground under my feet is gray and dusty. It crunches under my sneakers. There are craters all around me. The earth hangs high in the sky, shining blue and green.

My mother walks up to me. She’s a shrivelled old woman.

“We’re on the moon,” I say.

“Of course we are, Derek,” she says. “We live here.”

She points into the distance. I turn around to look. Our house is on the moon. The house where I grew up. It’s surrounded by gray dusty rock. The front yard is there. The garage. Some grass. A bush. But everything else is the moon. Gray rock and craters and dust. All around us.

“Why is our house on the moon?” I ask.

“Our house has always been on the moon. We’ve always lived here. You and me. On the moon. It’s where we live.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not right. I didn’t grow up on the moon.”

My mother looks at me like I’m crazy. “Derek. We have always lived on the moon.”

“That’s not right,” I say stubbornly. “I grew up on the earth.”

I turn around. I search the starry sky for the earth. But I can’t find it. I begin to panic. It was right there. The earth was right there. Where did it go?

***

I’m in a strip joint with the boss. It’s one of the clubs belonging to the syndicate. We’re at a back table. Mirrors everywhere. Dim lighting. The room smells of stale beer.

All the dancers look the same to me. Skinny. Blonde. Boring. None of them can dance. They strut. They spin around on the pole. Some hang upside down as they spin. They’re all going through the motions. Nothing sexy about any of it.

The music changes. A new girl comes out. A little plumper. All the blondes are rail thin. This woman has curves. Black hair. Taller than the others. Hasn’t shaved off all her pubes. More life to her. I take notice. She seems excited. Eager. Like she’s having fun, but we get to watch. Her dance is a bragging game.

Her body says, “Look what I can do. I’m doing this for you. For all of you. Aren’t I an amazing piece of ass?”

“That’s the one,” the boss says to me. “Her name is Sabrina.”

I nod. It’s dark in the club. I study her face. I get so I could recognize her on the street.

“She’s stealing from us,” the boss says. “I want her gone. Finished. Too bad. She’s a good dancer. Good money maker. Pretty. Has real talent. Smart, too.”

Sabrina spins around on the pole. Somehow, she owns it. That pole is hers. When she grabs hold, it’s different. It’s not bolted to the floor and ceiling. The pole comes alive. It wraps around her like a loving snake.

“She’s good,” I say.

“Yeah,” the boss says, a little sad.

“She steal a lot?”

“Enough for me to call you.”

When the boss calls me, somebody has to die. Some killers won’t do women. I don’t understand that. A kill is a kill. Just another job. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. They’re just problems to solve. Work to be done.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” the boss says. He slides an envelope across the table. “Two keys. One for her building. And one for her apartment. The landlord is a friend of ours.”

I pick up the envelope. The address is written on the outside. I pocket it.

“Nothing special,” the boss says. “Just kill Sabrina. No rush.”

“Right,” I say.

We watch Sabrina on the stage. She’s on all fours now. She’s thrusting her ass back and forth at us. It’s dirty. But she makes it seem fun and friendly. She looks back over her shoulder. And she smiles.

***

The house on the moon is filthy. Dust and dirt everywhere. Sand piles in the corners. I’m standing in the kitchen, looking around. My mother stands next to me. The kitchen sink is full of dishes. There are piles of plates. Multiple frying pans. Dishes galore.

“You have to do the dishes,” my mom says.

“Why?” I say. “They’re not mine. I’m a grown man. I don’t live here. It’s not my problem.”

I say all of this. But I start doing the dishes. I wash them, rinse them. I put them in a rack to dry.

“You have to help me,” my mother says. “I’m old. I need to be taken care of.”

“You’ve always needed taking care of,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re high maintenance, mom. You drain everyone.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m your mother. You have to be nice to me.”

“Why? Why do I have to be nice to you?”

“Boys have to be nice to their mothers.”

“I’m a man, mom,” I say. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”

“Just do the dishes. Afterwards, I have other little chores for you.”

I get angry, but keep washing. I scrub the dishes. She’s so small and shrivelled and weak. How does she make me do something I don’t want to do?

***

It’s Sabrina’s night off. I arrive at her apartment building at midnight. I stand on the street. I watch the window of her apartment. It’s dark. I stand around for an hour. Watching. The window stays dark. I figure Sabrina is asleep. Using my key, I enter the lobby of the building. Plastic plants and the smell of industrial cleanser. I ignore the elevator and take the stairs. Three floors up.

Brown carpeting in the hallway. The lingering smell of fried fish. The kind of smell that never goes away. Sabrina’s apartment door looks like all the others. No way to tell a talented stripper lives here. I put my ear against the door. No sound. I put the key in the lock. I turn slowly. I listen at the door again. Nothing. I turn the handle and open the door.

Linoleum floor leads to carpet. Apartment is one bedroom. Dark, but some street light leaking in. I creep through the living room. TV, couch, not much else.

Some men, I think, would find this sexy. Breaking in to a stripper’s home. Some men would think about sex. Maybe rape. Those ideas don’t ever occur to me. Until now. And now, it’s no temptation. It’s just a sudden understanding. A theoretical awareness. I saw Sabrina on stage. She was sexy. Beautiful. But I never thought of fucking her. The idea is in my head now. It would never happen. I don’t want it to happen. I have a job to do.

The bedroom door is open. It’s a hot night. Sabrina is in her bed, on top of the sheets. It’s dark. I can only just make her form out. A dark outline. She’s naked, on her back. I stare at her for a long time. She’s not moving. Sound asleep. There’s a fan on. It makes a dull humming noise. I creep closer. I’m standing over her. I reach out and grab her around the neck.

Her skin is cold and sticky. Something’s wrong. I turn on the lamp by the bed. Sabrina is dead. Her brown eyes are wide open. Her throat has been cut. Her chest, stabbed. My hands are covered in her blood. The sheets are covered in blood. Spatter on the walls. Messy death. Unprofessional. Passionate. Violent. Nothing like my work.

I quickly check the rest of the apartment. No one there. Whoever killed her is long gone. Whatever knife he used, he took with him.

I go back into the bedroom. I look at Sabrina’s dead, naked body for a long time. Am I angry? Am I sad? What am I feeling? I can’t tell.

***

“There are many things in the basement,” my mother says. “I need you to clear them out. You have to help me.”

“I don’t have to help you,” I say. “I’m an adult. I can do as I please. I have my own life, now. I don’t have to take care of you.”

Even as I complain, I comply. The basement is dirty, unfinished. The basement is full of junk. There are boxes of old books, magazines, Christmas decorations. Broken furniture. Dead electronic appliances. All kinds of crap.

I pick up a piece of junk. I carry it upstairs. I put it outside in the moon dust. Just past the end of the lawn. I go back into the basement. I grab another piece of junk. I carry it upstairs. I put it next to the first piece of junk.

“You’re such a good boy,” my mother says.

“I’m not a boy,” I say. “I’m a grown man.”

“You’ll always be your mother’s little boy,” she insists.

“No, mother. I’m not your little boy.”

And I keep taking junk out of the basement. All of it goes in the moon dust. It piles up around the house. It starts to look like a wall. I’m building a wall out of junk. I’m building the walls of my own prison. My mother and I are prisoners, in this house. In this house on the moon.

The basement seems to be full of junk. There’s more and more of it. The wall of junk surrounds the house. It gets taller and taller. I just keep building it up.

***

I meet the boss in a pool hall. We sit together in the back corner.

“Sabrina was already dead,” I say. “Someone else got to her. They cut her throat. Stabbed her to death. I didn’t see anyone. Might have been rape. A sex thing. Can’t say. She was naked. Dead. I didn’t stick around.”

“Huh,” the boss says. “Weird. Maybe she pissed off some guy. Some customer. Or maybe there’s a psychopath out there. Who knows. Anyway, she’s dead. Whether you did it, or somebody else, I don’t care. As long as she’s dead.”

I’m surprised. I thought he would be mad. I was supposed to kill her. Someone else did. I thought he’d want me to find the killer. I’m disappointed.

The boss picks up on these feelings of mine.

“Don’t get all romantic, Derek,” the boss says. “She was a thieving whore. Okay, she was a good dancer. I’ll give you that. But she’s dead. And she’s better off dead. Believe me.”

“I don’t like it,” I say.

“What don’t you like?”

“That someone got to her first.”

The boss shrugs, says, “What’s not to like? Someone killed her first. So what? He did you a favour. Saved you the trouble.”

“I guess,” I say, not convinced.

“Let it go,” the boss says. “These things happen. Coincidence, is all.”

We talk about other things. We watch the boring strippers. Waiting for something different. It never comes.

I keep thinking about Sabrina. Who killed her? Why does it upset me? I was going to kill her anyway.

***

“We should play cards,” my mother says to me.

We’re sitting in the living room, on the moon. It smells of cat piss. The furniture is old and musty. The carpet is dusty and gray. No one ever sits in this room.

“I don’t want to play cards,” I say.

“I’m your mother. And I say we’re going to play cards.”

She has a deck in her hands. She shuffles slowly. The back of the cards are blue, old.

“I don’t want to play cards.”

My mother ignores me. She finishes shuffling, then fans the deck in her hands. She holds them out to me.

“Pick a card, any card,” she says.

“You do magic now?”

“There are still some tricks in your old mother.”

I take a card at random. I look at it. It’s blank. Suddenly, I feel sick. Terrified. The blankness makes me want to throw up.

“Ta da!” my mother says.

There is something wrong with me. Like a disease. Or like being blind. And this card is proof. Like a test result. Or a birth certificate. I am blank. I am barren. I am empty. I’m not even alive. Dead inside. Cold and dead and white and old, like this card.

***

I go to the strip joint. I sit in the back. I don’t know why I am there. Sabrina, of course. The dead stripper. But I’m no detective. The boss didn’t exactly order me to leave it alone. He didn’t have to. I keep my nose clean. I don’t pry.

All the strippers are the same. Just like last time. Some dance on stage. Some naked women walk the floor. They sell lap dances.

One naked stripper comes up to me. Blonde, skinny. 23 going on 80. Her body looks young. Her face looks ancient. She has seen too much. Lived raw for too long. Drugs. Prostitution. Same old boring story.

“Hey, sexy,” she says to me. “Want a dance?”

I’m not interested. “Sure,” I hear myself say. I give her money.

She doesn’t seem to recognize me. Some people know who I work for. They don’t know what I do. They might have a few guesses.

“Hands by your sides, no touching,” she says. She tries to make the instructions sound sexy.

“Okay,” I say.

“My name’s Wanda.”

“Derek.”

She climbs on to my lap. She rubs her hairless body against me. She pushes her tiny breasts in my face. I’m not interested, but my body responds.

“Oo,” Wanda says. “What do we have here?”

And she grinds against my crotch.

She’s a terrible actress. The dance feels like it goes on forever. Maybe it’s five minutes. She climbs off me.

“You liked that,” she says. She eyes my crotch.

“Can I see you?” I hear myself ask. “Outside of work?”

“I could get fired for that,” Wanda says. She doesn’t sound too worried about it.

I show her some money, but don’t give her any.

Wanda says, “Meet me down the street. The gas station. Half an hour.”

“Fine.” And I give her some money.

I leave. I wait at the gas station. Twenty minutes later, she climbs into my car. She’s in a pleated skirt, t-shirt, and cowboy boots.

“Park around the corner,” she says. “No one will see us there.”

We park. She moves in close. I put my hands around her throat. And I start to strangle her.

I’m small. But I’m strong. No one perceives me as a threat. That’s why I’m such a good worker. And I always use my hands. I like to get in close.

Wanda’s eyes are blue. Her lips are thin. She has nice teeth. Her hands scramble at me weakly. She’s small, but scrappy. I can handle her. I hold on.

The people at the strip joint know who I work for. This will never get reported. There’s no danger, doing this. When I’m done, I’ll leave her in the alley. With the garbage. I squeeze harder.

But why am I doing this? What’s this all about? I don’t understand. I look at my actions with curiosity. Like I’m watching someone else. Or watching a movie. My hands tighten. Her eyes start to go cloudy. Out of focus.

It doesn’t make sense. Where’s the logic? No one is paying for this hit. Is this for pleasure? I don’t feel it. I don’t kill for pleasure. I do it for money. For the boss. There’s nothing inside of me. Nothing. I am empty. A machine.

Is this because I didn’t get to Sabrina? Someone beat me to her. Cut her throat. Is that why? A missed opportunity?

I was supposed to kill a stripper. So I’m killing a stripper. They’re all the same. Is that it?

But Sabrina was different. Special. Beautiful. Sexy. Wanda is just another dull, blonde stripper. Where’s the logic? What’s the reason?

I squeeze and I squeeze.

***

I’m in a house, on the moon. It’s the house I grew up in. It’s also a prison. My mother is with me. We’re in the living room. The playing cards are scattered all over the floor. The ones face up are all blank. The whole deck is blank. There was no trick. My mother cheated. And my hands are wrapped around my mother’s throat.

I’m squeezing. I’m strangling. I’m trying to kill her. She doesn’t die. So I keep throttling her. But she just won’t die.

I’m going to be stuck here, forever. Strangling my mother. In this prison of a house. Strangling my mother, forever. On the moon.

The Corner Store Hit

2010-10-19T15:55:00.001-04:00

The corner store looks like an easy hit, and I’ve been meaning to rob the place for weeks. Whenever I duck inside for gum or a snack, I weigh how difficult it would be. Good location, tranquil neighbourhood – should be a breeze.

It’s a hot, lazy, summer afternoon, and it feels right. Today is the day. It’s quiet. They’ll never see me coming. Plus my desperation is bad enough. I need the money.

With my knife in my pocket, I walk in. A little bell on the door jingles above my head. It’s around lunch time, and I’m ready to make threats and run off with probably forty bucks or so. Not much, but enough for my immediate needs.

But everything comes to a grinding halt. I see the boy behind the cash – he’s maybe 14 years old. What the hell?

The store belongs to a Pakistani family. They each take turns running the place – usually a mother, father, and a grandfather. They have an apartment, above the store, and they all live there together. But I’d never seen this kid before. He never registered. Maybe he was always there, in the background, reading a comic book, but I just never took him in.

The way he’s sitting there, behind the counter, uncomfortable and proud, it’s clear he hasn’t done this much. He has this half smile, fading in and out, on his face. He’s a big boy, doing a big boy’s job. Right now he’s selling cat food to some crazy old bitch. You can see the dome of the woman’s head through a thin cloud of white hair. She’s paying with nickels and dimes – must have fished them out of a change jar at home. The coins spill down on the counter, falling out of her big, fat, trembling fingers.

All of this gives me time to think, to look around. My first thought: I can’t do this. I can’t rob a kid. I was ready to intimidate an old man, or one of the parents. This kid stuff is bullshit.

I’m mad, because they’ve put me in this situation. What kind of parents put a kid behind the cash, on his own? Don’t they know there are dangerous people out there? Don’t they give a shit? In a way, they brought this on themselves. This isn’t my fault. It’s theirs. I didn’t do anything wrong, here. Fuck them. It’s their own fault if this kid gets traumatized.

“How much is that?” bald cat food lady simpers. “How much more? Is that good?”

It’s like the two of them are doing calculus.

The store is old, and is never cleaned all that well. The corners always look a little grungy. On the wall behind the cash is a collection of ancient junk for sale: rubber bands, thumb tacks, nail files – the stuff no one ever buys. But what catches my eye is a hairnet. Judging by the faded colour of the packaging, the hairnet has been hanging there for decades. There’s a plastic bubble, the hairnet inside. The cardboard package shows a woman from the 60s proudly wearing the hairnet in public. Christ, how long has this thing been waiting for a buyer?

Cat food lady leaves. We have the store to ourselves – me and the kid. I step up to the cash. I take out my knife, open it, and show it to him. Before I can even speak, he’s begging me:

“No mister, no. Please mister. Don’t do this. My parents made me work today. It’s my first weekend on the job and I wanted them to see I could handle it. They went out for the afternoon. They made me work. Mister, don’t do this, please. My parents will kill me!”

Partly it’s the way he begs. Partly it’s the look on his face – so close to tears. I give up on robbing the place. My heart isn’t in it. He’s just a kid, after all. Without really knowing why or understanding it, I fold the knife and put it away.

“Forget it,” I say, a little embarrassed. “Forget the whole thing.”

“I will, mister. I will. I won’t call the police or anything.”

“Good.”

Instead of leaving, I just stand there. I don’t know why. I just stand here and look at the kid. And he looks at me. There’s still an uncomfortable tension in the air. I’m desperate to break it for some reason. I don’t understand my own thoughts and feelings.

“Look, I was going to rob the place,” I say, teasing. “I don’t want to leave empty handed. You’ve got to give me something.”

“What do you want, mister? You can take anything.” Then he quickly corrects himself. “Or, one thing. One of anything.”

“One of anything?” I say.

“Right, right.”

“Well, gee,” I say. “Anything, huh?” And I make a big show of looking all around the store, as though weighing my options. “Chips, maybe? A chocolate bar? Some milk? Hmmm. So many choices…”

But I know exactly what I’m going to ask for.

“Give me the hairnet,” I say, pointing at it.

The kid looks at the hairnet hanging on the wall, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looks at me like I’m crazy. Or I’m pulling a mean joke.

“Come on,” I say, and I can’t help but smile. “You said I could have one thing.”

The kid stands on a stool to reach for the hairnet. He takes it off the wall, gets down, and hands it to me. He’s such a short, innocent little kid. Looking at him makes me hurt inside, makes me feel like shit. Was I ever so small?

I take the hairnet package, rip it open, and put the hairnet on.

“What do you think?” I ask, posing like the belle of the ball. I put my hands up under my chin. I flutter my eyelashes.

The kid bursts out laughing. It’s exaggerated, nervous. But I can’t blame him. A few minutes ago he thought I was going to stab him.

“That bad?” I say, smiling.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, trying to control his nervous giggles.

Now that I’ve decided not to rob the place, I feel protective of this kid. Who else is out there, casing this place for a robbery? I look out the window at the hot summer afternoon.

“So, why are you working by yourself? You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t be doing this, you should be out playing or something. It’s crazy.”

“My parents want me to be responsible,” the kid says, shrugging. “They want me to know how to work hard. It’s all they talk about.”

I shake my head in disgust. “You’re just a kid. There’s plenty of time for all that bullshit later in life. Hell, look at me! Do I look responsible? I’m 32 years old, and I don’t have a job. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. The state gives me a nice check once a month. I’m on welfare. And I get that money just for being alive! Get it? They owe me. I don’t owe them anything. I didn’t ask to be born. And who says you have to work hard? I see people, in suits, struggling and running around like crazy, and for what? To buy shit they don’t need? To look important? What for? It’s all so phony and stupid.”

The kid is looking at me, wide-eyed, like he’s never thought of any of these things before. He’s eating it up. Obviously his parents have stuffed his head with a load of crap. And it’s the same crap my parents fed me. Be responsible. Work hard. Do your best. All that bullshit that doesn’t get you anywhere.

And I get this feeling like, I can help this kid. I can teach this kid. I can show him the life I know – real life. Not the life parents impose on us. Life as it really is.

We talk for an hour. I do most of the talking – more like lecturing. Mostly I talk about my life, my adventures, my sexual exploits. I keep it rated PG, but all the same the kid gobbles it all up. He asks questions. He’s interested.

Nobody ever listens to me. Nobody takes me seriously. But this kid does. And I feel this sense of responsibility and pride.

That’s how it starts, our friendship. I walk by the store, and if he’s in there, working, I duck in and we talk. We never mention that bit of unpleasantness – me pulling a knife when we first met. A misunderstanding between friends. And now that we are friends, I keep hoping some punk comes in and tries to pull what I was going to pull. Because I still carry my knife, and I’ll defend Charles to the death.

That’s his name – Charles. He’s a good kid, but dumb the way most kids are. He doesn’t know anything. Charles thinks his teachers tell the truth. He thinks school is about learning, and not about being programmed. Until he met me, he was a good little robot, without an original thought in his head. I open up his mind. I put him on the right path.

For starters, Charles doesn’t know how to swear. He doesn’t even know the words. This is the stuff he should be learning in the schoolyard, but he goes to some kind of sissy school where they all talk nice.

I teach him “fuck” and “shit” and “motherfucker” and “cocksucker”. All the good stuff. I teach him how to reach inside, for the worst word combination you can think of, and spit it out with all the force you can muster.

“Ass shit fucker fuck!” Charles blurts out.

And I laugh, and muss his hair. He gets it.

I give him books to read – Kurt Vonnegut, William S. Burroughs. I give him ripped CDs of the Dead Kennedys and other classic punk bands. Everything a rebellious young man needs to know about life.

Then, it happens. One day, I go into the store, and something is wrong. Charles has a black eye.

And I say, “How did you get that? Did you get into a fight at school?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, grumpy in that way kids sometimes get. It’s cute and sad at the same time.

“Come on. You can tell me. I’m your friend. I want to look out for you.”

There’s this long silence. Charles is struggling with telling me. I wait, sitting down on a milk crate near the cash.

“My dad hit me,” he says, the words flying out of him. “I swore, I said a bad word, and he just punched me in the face.”

I’m horrified. I’m on my feet in an instant. “What? Parents can’t do that. It’s not acceptable. There are laws. Fuck, man.”

“I hate him so much,” Charles growls, sounding like an angry puppy. “He’s so stupid. And he always makes me work in this motherfucking shit store.”

“Of course you hate him,” I say. “Why wouldn’t you? The man is a tyrant, a monster. He’s stealing your childhood from you. He’s draining the life out of you. He’s a fucking dickhead.”

And I’m so angry, I’m shaking. Charles is just a kid. You can’t hit kids. You can’t hurt kids. He’s my friend. It’s not right.

“Has he hit you before, your dad?” I ask.

Charles just nods dumbly.

“That is bullshit,” I say. “That is complete fucking bullshit.”

Charles is looking at me with awe, fear, worry. For a second I can’t figure out why, and then I look at my hands, clenched into fists, trembling and white-knuckled. I’m flying off the handle. If I stay in the store, I’ll start trashing the place. I’ll put my fist through the window and rip up my arm, bleed to death right there.

“I have to go,” I say, and I rush out into the street, and I run all the way home.

It stays with me, in my apartment – all afternoon and into the night. I keep thinking the rage will go away, but it doesn’t. It builds and it builds. The fury is like a hurricane in my body, moving around, swirling in my stomach, in my head, in my throat. I pace the floor. Maybe if I distract myself, I think, and I try to watch TV. It doesn’t help.

“I have to do something,” I say out loud. “I can fix this. I’m an adult. I’m responsible. I’m not just a kid. I can fix this. I can help Charles. I can save him.”

And next thing I know, I’m back on the street, going to the store. I’ve got my knife, in my pocket. Am I going to use it? What am I going to do? The store is closed by now. It’s late, almost 11. What am I going to do?

In my head, I see flashes of me stabbing the father, cutting his throat. I see myself screaming, “This is for Charles!” and plunging the knife into the man’s eye. “This is what you get for hitting kids!” And I see myself stabbing the guy, killing him dead, then lighting a cigarette and walking away. As cool and collected as a mafia hit man. Later, the police pick me up and I go to jail for a long time. But it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. To save that kid.

The whole story spills out in my mind like a movie on fast-forward. Is that what I’m going to do?

My rage has the controls. My body is not my own. I’m not in charge. I’m possessed by my own emotions, by my own past. My childhood, my helplessness, when I was a kid. Maybe this isn’t even about Charles at all. No, it is. It’s about him. But it isn’t. And… fuck.

I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about me. I just want to do something. Fix it. Act.

I’m at the apartment door. I’m banging on it with my fist. I keep banging. The door opens, and there he is – the father. He has a big black moustache, and is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. He’s shorter than me, stocky. And he’s looking at me, shocked, concerned.

“Yes?” he asks, a little timidly.

“You have to be nice to Charles,” I say. It was supposed to come out as a scream of rage, but half-way through, it breaks. It turns into something else.

“You have to be nice to him,” I repeat, and I’m crying. Tears are running down my face. What was supposed to be a violent fury has turned into helpless pleading. My voice is wracked with sobs. “You can’t hit your kids. You just can’t. You have to be nice to your kids. You have to be nice to Charles. You have to be nice to him. You have to.”

The father just stares at me, his face blank, his eyes wide. He has no idea who I am or what’s going on. I think I’m going to faint. I grab the edge of the doorway, and I sort of stumble. The father catches me as I fall forward. He’s holding me up, supporting me around the chest. I wrap my arms around him, and I really lose it. I sob, and I hold on to him, and it just pours out of me – misery, loneliness, grief, mourning. I feel gutted. Like I am vomiting feeling out of my eyes.

“You have… to be nice… to me,” I choke out. “You have… to listen… to me. Be nice to Charles. Don’t… hit him.”

I don’t know how long we’re like that. I don’t know why he puts up with it. Maybe he’s frightened. But at some point it dawns on me that this is the saddest fucking thing in the world – me bawling my eyes out on some man I don’t even know. And like that, I pull myself together. I stand up straight, and the father lets go of me. He’s looking at me with concern and nervousness, like he doesn’t know what I’m capable of. He thinks I’m crazy.

So I just run off. I leave. I run off to my sad little apartment. I collapse in bed. I sob, and then I sleep.

I decide not to go back to the store again. I won’t see Charles anymore. Because what if he saw me? What if he saw me, clutching his father, and sobbing? What if he realizes I’m no tough guy, after all? What if he realizes I’m just another scared little kid, like him? I can’t deal with that. I was his hero, his tough guy. What am I now? Who am I, really?

But after a week, I can’t help myself. I worry about Charles. I worry about his parents, and him working that store. What if no one is looking out for him? What if I’m not there for him?

So I go back.

The little bell over the door jingles. Charles is at the cash. He’s wearing a Dead Kennedys T-shirt. The sight of it fills me with pride.

“Cool shirt,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Your eye looks better,” I say as I sit down on the milk crate. “Your parents don’t mind the shirt? They don’t find it offensive?”

“My dad bought it for me,” Charles says. “We went to this shop, downtown? They have all kinds of shirts with band names on them. I didn’t recognize any of the bands. And then I saw the Dead Kennedys shirt, and I told my dad I wanted that one. And he bought it for me! I couldn’t believe it. The guy at the store thought it was funny that somebody my age even knows who the Dead Kennedys are. It was funny. Anyway, my dad has been real nice to me, you know, since… Since the night you came, and talked to him.”

“Oh?” I say, and I can feel my face turning red.

“Yeah,” Charles says.

We don’t talk for a bit. At first the silence is awkward and hot, but then something happens – the silence flips upside down, opens up, and feels warm and nice. It’s like the warm, comfortable embrace of stepping into a greenhouse full of beautiful exotic flowers. I look Charles in the eye and he’s smiling, and I smile back. And everything seems to be okay.

“You ever heard of the band Bauhaus?” I ask, and take a ripped CD out of my coat pocket.

“No, what are they like?”

“More artsy than the Dead Kennedys,” I say, “but I know you’re going to love them.”

Some Thoughts on "The Human Centipede"

2010-09-21T16:26:00.002-04:00

(This contains some spoilers. If you’re going to watch the movie, you might want to skip this.)

A mad scientist abducts three people – one man and two women. He removes some of their teeth and stitches them together, grafting ass to mouth, in a chain. He also cuts the ligaments in their knees so they can’t stand up. The result is what he calls “The Human Centipede”. He shows us a drawing, depicting the gastric system going through all three people. This, it would seem, is his goal. He wants food to be eaten by person #1 digested and shat into person #2, who digests it and then shits it into person #3, who then digests it and shits it out.

The movie is surprisingly clean, arty, and simple – even while it’s disgusting and weird. There’s surprisingly little gore. It’s more the concept that’s horrifying.

There are a lot of familiar horror movie tropes here, but they’re well executed, and quick, getting us to the gross stuff. Two tourist girls driving through Germany have their car break down. They go up to a house, looking for help. Inside is a mad scientist who wants to do terrible things to them. Wait a minute -- is this The Rocky Horror Picture Show?

I get the feeling all of this standard horror movie schlock is meant to serve as an “envelope” for the disgusting concept in the middle. It’s all so familiar. So shouldn’t the human centipede ass-to-mouth madness feel familiar? No. Of course, it doesn’t feel familiar. It’s disgusting, and new, and insane. Which is why the movie is so controversial and getting so much attention.

The film delivers exactly what it promises, which surprised me. At the same time, it feels like there’s more here than is being shown. The big question, which is never really answered, is WHY? Why does a scientist, mad or otherwise, want to do this? Why make a human centipede?

There are hints. The mad doctor used to take Siamese twins apart; now he wants to put people together.

One of his victims yells out, are you getting a sexual thrill from this?

Looking at the doctor, he isn’t. Not really. We see a real pervert, early in the film. He’s fat. He waggles his tongue. He’s obvious and gross. He wants to fuck the two hot girls.

By comparison, our crazy doctor isn’t like that at all. He’s clean, fastidious, weird, isolated, and German. This isn’t about sex. This is about something else. There’s something weird in his head that he wants to bring to life. He’s an artist. He has a vision. And it would appear it has something to do with poop.

One of the doctor’s first victims is a trucker going off into the woods to take a dump. We see the doctor stalk the guy, and shoot him, even as the trucker is squatting to take a crap. This feels, oddly, like the director establishing a theme. And that theme is crap.

When the man who is segment one has to take a crap, he begs segment two for forgiveness. She realizes with horror that someone is about to shit in her mouth and she has no choice but to eat it.

“Feed her!” the doctor bellows in triumph to segment 1.

“Swallow!” he demands of segment 2.

Why is this exciting or important to the mad doctor? It doesn’t seem sexual. It seems more primitive than sex. It’s something psychotic and childish and Freudian. Yes, he wants to beat the centipede into submission, but only to fulfill his vision, his purpose.

But why poop? Why play with poop?

Everyone has an embarrassing family story about toilet training. One such story I heard is of a kid who wouldn’t poop on the toilet. He would only poop in his diaper. The kid refused to be potty trained. The frustrated parents asked a doctor for advice. The doctor explained that the kid thinks the poop is a piece of himself and doesn’t want to give it up. He doesn’t want it taken away, That’s why he will only poop in his diaper -- he gets to keep his crap.

The doctor’s solution: let the kid run around naked. That way, when he poops, it will just fall out of him and hit the ground. Thus the kid learns poop isn’t a part of him – it’s just waste.

In The Human Centipede, something similar is going on. Shit is food. Shit is power. Shit is magic. Shit needs to be held on to for as long as possible. The mad doctor wants to make a highway for shit to travel, so it stays inside for a long, long time.

As adult human beings, we have been taught that poop is disgusting and vile. We definitely shouldn’t play with it. Toilet humour is the lowest form of comedy there is. Using poop for horror is beyond offensive. It’s taboo. It’s psychologically forbidden. This is why "The Human Centipede" is getting such amazingly disgusted reactions from critics and audience members. The film is carefully treading into our most primitive memories.

Before the three people are stitched together, one of the women tries to escape. She is the hero o the story, sort of. The mad doctor is pleased by her feistiness. He tells her that her courage has proved to him that she gets the place of honour. She gets to be the middle segment.

What? Wait. Why is the middle the place of honour? Shouldn't that be the first segment, who doesn't have to eat crap?

What possible logic is at work here? Why is the middle position best? Is it because all her needs are met, without having to do any work? She is fed by the person in front of her. (Fed poop, mind you.) Her ass is automatically cleaned by the person behind her. Is this some sort of idyllic position for our mad doctor?

Some of you are reading this and thinking I’m the crazy one. Why ask why? The guy is nuts, he wants to stitch mouths to asses. He’s a pervert. That’s the end of it. This film is stupid and gross. Don’t dwell on it. Ew, ew, ew.

I think that’s entirely wrong. The weird thing about this film is that some primitive, Freudian part of us sees “poop magic” as normal. That’s why the film is so compelling. It takes the standard horror movie formula, and puts this demented shit-filled, Freudian centipede in the centre. It dares us to find it sick and weird, even as the movie is a fairly pedestrian horror film.

The ending is fascinating to me. It takes that middle segment place of honour and makes it truly disturbing and horrible. Segment 1 kills himself. Segment 3 dies of some kind of infection. That leaves the woman in the middle. She’s grafted to two corpses. No one will feed her. No one will clean up after her. She’s alone in the house. Everyone else in the story -- the doctor, two policemen -- is dead. The camera wanders away, panning up to the roof of the house, leaving her in that situation. The end.

The film left me with a lot to think about. There’s a lot going on. For example, the doctor is compared to God. Is he trying to create something perfect? At one point he gets excited at the idea of making a longer centipede, adding new segments. How far could he take this? Does he want to create some sort of society where everyone is linked together? Is this about bondage and beating, or about everyone “knowing their place”?

If you can get past the grossness, this is definitely a film worth seeing.

See Roger Ebert’s review.

Ugly Baby

2010-09-17T12:11:00.003-04:00

I am an ugly baby. There's no denying this. At less than a month old, I have a huge double chin. My eyes are tiny black dots. I'm completely bald. My face isn't symmetrical. My left ear is an inch lower than the right. When I smile, people recoil from me as if slapped.

Most parents would overlook this. They usually can't tell they have an ugly child. Parents think their child is precious, beautiful -- simply because it's theirs. They coo, and they swoon, and they bore everyone by saying how wonderful their baby is.

My parents aren't like that. They find me embarrassing. They ignore me as much as possible. I spend most of my time in my crib, my diaper full of shit, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a rage so intense it cannot be expressed in words. Not that I can talk. I can think, but I can't speak. My vocal chords are underdeveloped. My tongue is not mine to control. Being a newborn, I can’t even manage "gaga".

But my thoughts are full of words. I don't understand it. Maybe it's proof of reincarnation. Maybe these words come from some past life, carried over into this new one. I have this vocabulary, in my head, to express all these feelings, but I can't get them out into the open.

"I hate the baby," mommy says.

"You don't mean that," daddy answers her.

"I do, John. I do mean it. I hate the way he looks. I hate the way he stares at me. He's not a bad baby, he never cries. But I just can't stand his face. And I think he hates me. I think he can tell I don't care for him. The way he stares at me, with his weird little insect eyes..."

"Deb, come on. Get a hold of yourself. It takes time to bond with a new child. It's not an instantaneous thing. Give it time. Now, I'm not saying you're suffering from postpartum depression or anything like that..."

"I am not depressed," mommy says firmly. "I feel fine. I'm happy. I... I just hate the baby."

They're silent for a moment.

"I hate him too," daddy admits quietly. "I hate saying it, but I do."

"You do?" mommy gushes with great relief. "Oh, thank god. Thank god. Maybe we just aren't ready to have kids. Maybe we need more time for ourselves. I don't know. I hate to say that we're simply too selfish to have children, but... We aren't ready. Is that it?"

"Maybe. Maybe that's it."

"I have a life. I have things I want to do. I can't be expected to take care of some ugly little fuck."

"Come on, Deb. Don't call him that."

"No. No, John. Let's be honest. Let's find out exactly where we stand, here. Do you want to take care of it?"

"Not really. I mean, just being near him… It makes me feel sick. But he's ours, and... We’ll just have to do our best. I guess."

"No. I simply won't stand for it. Something has to be done."

"Like what, Deb?"

Mommy says, quite slowly, "What if he had... an accident... of some kind?"

"Deborah! He's our child. What you're suggesting is..."

"I know what it is. Murder. There, I said it. I brought him into this world; I can take him out of it!" Then she laughs nervously. "That's what my mother used to say to me, when I misbehaved."

"Let me just... Let me just think about it," daddy says. "It's a pretty radical step."

"Well, don't take too long to think about it. I don't know how much longer I can stand him being here."

They have this conversation right in front of me, right above my crib. They assume I won't understand. Most babies wouldn't. But I do. I understand every single word and nuance.

Part of me wonders, are they right to hate me? Is there more to this than just my physical appearance? Is there some kind of taint, deep inside of me? Some sort of evil? Am I a monster? I was born ugly, yes. I can admit that. Is there a deeper ugliness? Am I morally deficient? Is my personality broken? Is there something wrong with me?

I've gone over it a million times. Besides being ugly, I seem decent enough. I'm pleasant. I hardly ever cry. I coo and gurgle the way a good baby is supposed to. Clearly I am far more intelligent than a normal child my age. What can I do to demonstrate my good intentions? What more am I capable of? For fuck's sakes, I can't even crawl yet.

It's them. Obviously, it's them. My parents are to blame. I am no monster. They're the monsters. They're the ones who brought a child into the world and then decided, because the baby is ugly, that it's a failure. They see me as an inconvenience, a bother. What superficial, stupid people. Couldn't they have planned ahead, recognized that a child isn't something you just bring into the world without giving the matter some thought?

They're the sort of couple who just do what's expected of them. They reached a certain age, and they got married. They bought a house. They had a child – they had me. They were stuck in that routine of the thoughtless. They looked to their friends, to see what they should be doing. And they aped what they saw – merely the external appearance, mind you. Because when you study your friends from a distance, trying to figure out what they're up to, all you get is the shiny surface, and none of the darkness underneath.

My mother takes up drinking, to cope. Bourbon, judging by the smell of it. She comes into my room with a tumbler full of her poison and rattles the ice cubes in her glass above my head.

"Who's an ugly baby?" she says, her voice slurring. "Who's a fucking horrible monster?"

That's how she greets me, her son.

I just stare up at her. Not smiling. Not moving. I just watch. It seems to make her nervous. I am a quiet, studious baby.

"Where's your daddy?" she asks me. "Do you know where your fucking daddy is? Is he having an affair with his secretary? Is he fucking some bimbo in an office boardroom somewhere? Is that where your fucking daddy is? I wouldn't put it past the bastard. That would be just like him, leaving me here with you."

Her cell phone rings. It's one of those smart phones, an iPhone. She answers it.

"Where the fuck are you? Of course I'm at home. Someone has to look after the living abortion. Don't give me that bullshit, John. You never worked late like this before we had the kid. Come on, John. You can't expect me to swallow this crap. You can't leave me alone with him. I thought we were going to do something about this. John. John! Come home. Talk to me. John?"

Daddy has hung up on her. She looks at the phone in disbelief, then goes to take a sip out of her glass. It's empty. With a sudden fury, she throws her tumbler against the wall and it explodes into shards.

For the first time in my life, I seriously consider crying out, weeping like a normal, frightened child. Instead, I clench my little fists. Some stupid part of me thinks I can win her over by being good. I'm a sucker.

"God damn it," mommy says. She slumps against the wall, and for a moment I think she is going to cry. She puts her smart phone on the railing to my crib and goes away. A few minutes later, she's back with a broom and dustpan. When she's done cleaning up the broken glass, she goes downstairs.

She's totally forgotten about her phone. I have it now, tucked away somewhere no one ever seems to look -- inside my diaper.

Daddy comes home a few hours later. There's an argument downstairs. I hear sounds, yelling, then nothing. As they come up the stairs, I hear daddy say:

"Can we discuss this tomorrow? I’ve had a long day."

"You've had a long day? You left me here, alone, with that thing."

"Deb, tomorrow. I promise."

"Fine. But that's it. Tomorrow, before you go to work. We decide what we're going to do. Okay?"

"Okay," daddy says.

"We need a plan. You and I are going to do this. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you, John? Because I'm talking final solution. Get me?"

"I get you, Deb. Jesus."

It gets quiet then. They watch TV. They eat food. They go to sleep. I spend the entire time in my crib. No one even thinks of taking me out or feeding me or changing me. But I don’t just lie there. I'm busy.

My eyes have trouble focusing and I have difficulty moving my fingers, but I begin to understand how the iPhone works. I don't have a clear plan, at first. I just want to understand this device, see what my options are. I swipe fingers over the screen. I push the home button. I bring the device close to my eyes and study what I see.

The Internet. Here are tons of possibilities. I could find some sort of government agency for the protection of children. I could send them an anonymous tip from a concerned neighbour. "I heard them threaten to kill their child. They never seem to take it outside anymore. I’m worried."

I quickly dismiss the idea. No tricks. This isn't about games. I want to speak. I want to be heard. I want them to understand what I'm going through. I want them to know how I feel.

I surf the app store. Maybe they have something I could use. My fingers get better at manipulating the screen. My eyes gain a sharper focus. This iPhone is exactly what I needed. My intellect, my body -- I need something to channel my energies. Up until now, all I had was a rattle -- a plastic sphere with dried peas inside. Shake it, and it makes a noise. Christ, what the fuck is the point of that?

On the app store, I find a text-to-speech application. Exactly the sort of thing I want. Who needs a functioning tongue when you have technology?

I turn the volume down low. I type a word -- "cat". I get the device to speak.

"Cat," says the iPhone.

I try typing a few trial sentences. It takes a lot of effort. My fingers aren't stable. Sweat runs down my tiny face. But I'm motivated.

"If music be the food of love, play on," says the iPhone. "Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers... Itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout."

It's a Stephen Hawkings robot voice. But then, what am I? A baby, in a crib, who can't speak, with an intellect trapped inside. I'm very much like the handicapped physicist. And soon I will surprise mommy and daddy with my intelligence, with my feelings.

I can make this work. I will communicate. I tuck the iPhone back in my diaper and get some rest.

It feels like my eyes just closed when I wake up, suddenly. How many hours have gone by? There's a noise. A quiet noise. I look up. My parents are at the door. Daddy is holding a big, fluffy pillow. The way he's carrying it, I realize this pillow is their murder weapon. They intend to smother me to death.

I take the iPhone out of my diaper and I start typing.

"Listen to me," I say. "This has to stop. I know this will come as a shock, but I'm intelligent, and I need you to listen to what I have to say."

Daddy stops in his tracks. He drops the pillow. Mommy, behind him, peers over his shoulder. Her mouth hangs open. She can't believe what she is seeing. Neither of them can.

"What...?" mommy says, her voice trailing off.

There I am, lying in my crib, on my back, the iPhone propped up on my belly. And I’m typing up a storm with my fingers.

"Listen to me," I type, and then the iPhone speaks the words. "This is not a trick. This is your child, your baby talking to you. I know what you plan to do. I know what that pillow is for. You can't smother me. You can't. Because I'm an intelligent being. And, by the way, I appear to be more intelligent than the two of you put together. You don't think a crime lab will be able to tell I was smothered to death? They’ll never think it was crib death. You idiots have no idea what you're doing. You'll both be off to jail."

I shake my head. No, this isn't what I wanted to say. This isn't right. I change tracks entirely.

"I'm your child," I say. "I'm yours. You created me. And it's your job to take care of me. You need to love me. Do you understand? You need to stop being children and look after me. Your lives have changed. You need to own what is happening to you. You need to take responsibility for your actions. You can't have a child and then ignore it, abandon it."

"I need to be fed," I say. "I need to have my diaper changed. I need to be stimulated intellectually so I develop in the proper way. I need so much, I know. I'm helpless and small. Yes, I suppose I am a burden, but I need you to help me. You two, you had a child. It's your job to help me with my needs. You don't know what it's been like, looking at you two botch my upbringing. I listen to your feeble excuses, watch you fight over what needs doing. Daddy runs away, not wanting to take any responsibility. Mommy wants to go shopping and watch soap operas and sit on her fat fucking ass."

I'm furious. My fingers hurt. My eyes are burning from staring at the screen. I don't care. I ignore all my physical pain and I keep typing.

"I love you. Why don't you love me? What's wrong with you people, that you would ignore a newborn child, let it sit in its own shit? Why? Why do you do it? What's wrong with you two? What the fuck is wrong with you? Answer me!"

But they just stand there, gaping at me. They think they've gone insane. They can't believe this is happening. And I guess it is a lot to take in, a baby typing frantically on an iPhone, communicating in complete sentences. But I don't want to feel sympathy for these idiots. I want answers. I want them to explain themselves. I want them to be confronted with me, with what I want, with how I feel.

"There is this huge, burning, terrible ache in my chest," I say. "It's longing for love. For care. For nurturing. It's tearing me up inside. And I hear you say such terrible things about me, and about each other, and I ache all the more. Why won't you love me? I don't think I'm all that ugly. Shouldn't a little ugliness even make you feel sympathy for me? Doesn't the runt of the litter get showered with all the more love and care, because it is helpless and smaller than the other puppies? Couldn't you think of me in that light? Couldn't you at least try to..."

Daddy steps forward and rips the iPhone from my hands. He throws it on the floor. And then he stomps on it, crushing it under his heel.

I can't believe what he's done. It's so stupid. So ignorant.

As if to drive the point home, he kicks the shattered iPhone to one side. Then he speaks to mommy, without looking away from me.

"Let's go," Daddy says.

Mommy's eyes are huge. Her mouth still hangs open. "What...?" she says.

"Let's just go," daddy says.

"Go?" she echoes.

Daddy grabs mommy by the arm and they slowly back out of the room. They don't want to look away from me. The way they’re staring, it’s as if I will levitate out of my crib and chase after them. Instead of hearing what I had to say, they're terrified that I can speak, can understand them. If anything, it has made them all the more stupid, selfish, and frightened.

The door closes. And then there's a loud click. I realize with a start that they have locked the door. I didn't even know there was a lock on my bedroom door.

It's quiet for a long, long time. I strain to hear a sound. There's nothing.

They're never coming back in here. It hits me with a chilling certainty. This is it. They're just going to leave me in here. They're going to let me die of thirst, of hunger. They're just going to completely abandon me. They're never coming back into this room again. They wouldn't do that, would they? Oh yes, they would. Of course they would. They're young and stupid and frightened of everything. I might just be a baby, but I'm so much older and smarter than they are, and they're just going to leave me in here to die.

That's when it happens. Something inside of me breaks. The ache in my chest pops open, like a boil being lanced, and I am flooded with painful emotion. And I cry. I cry as loud and hard as I possibly can. It pours out of me like lava. Like red hot pus. It’s a furious, painful, sobbing scream of impotence and need.

For the first time in my life, I'm crying like a fucking baby.

Strangled Sunlight

2010-09-01T06:12:00.000-04:00

I’d never killed a man in the daylight before. Murder is a night time thing. That’s what I told myself. The dark hides the killing. It hides it from witnesses. It hides it from the victim. It hides it from me. I can pretend it was just a dream. I don’t have to take it seriously.

Killing in the day is different. I can see everything. All the details stand out. The cracks in the pavement. The graffiti on the wall. Every beer can in the grass. The broken bottles. The clothes the victim wears. The colour and texture of his hair. His face. The sounds he makes. The grunts. The gasps. All of it is there, in my memory. It’s uncomfortable, for me. I like my memories covered in shadows.

It started as a simple hit.

“His name’s Crispin,” the boss tells me.

“What the fuck kind of name is that?” I ask.

“He’s young,” the boss says. “Stupid. He doesn’t carry a weapon. At least, he never did. No gun, no knife. He’s white. Brown hair. Vinnie took his picture. Wait. Vinnie, give us your phone.”

We’re in a pool hall. The kind that doesn’t let in strangers. If they get in, we chase them out. Or knock them out with a pool cue.

Vinnie is an enforcer. He’s big and scary looking. He can hurt you, but he doesn’t kill. I’m on the smaller side. I look like an insurance salesman. I kill.

Vinnie stands up from his stool. He waddles over.

“Here ya go, Derek,” he says.

I take the phone. There’s a picture of Crispin. He’s skinny, trying to smile. His teeth are all crooked. His lips are so thin, they’re almost not there. Crispin looks like an ugly fish. Nothing dangerous.

No need to discuss why he’s doomed. It’s always the same story. Crispin didn’t pay money he owed The Business. When that happens, enforcers try to scare him. When that doesn’t work, The Business sends me. I have to make an example. I have to clean it up.

“He looks like a loser,” I say.

“He is a loser,” the boss says. “They’re all losers. That’s why we kill them. If they weren’t losers, they’d have money.”

“No,” I say. “He looks worse than the regulars. A real loser. I don’t know. Just god awful.”

Something in Crispin’s face does it. Partly it’s the smile. When Vinnie takes your picture, you don’t smile. It’s usually the last picture anybody ever takes of you. Crispin was smiling. Not happy. Just trying to be friendly. Trying to fit in. Weak. Stupid. A loser.

“King of the losers,” Vinnie suggests.

I nod. “That’s it. Like he’s the king of the losers.” I hand Vinnie back his phone.

Vinnie looks at the photo. “Royalty,” he says, dreamy like. And smiles at his own joke. He pockets his phone and waddles away.

“Anyway,” the boss says. “The Idiot is holed up downtown. Some abandoned store. With his girlfriend, Tidbit. Who fucking works for us. Tidbit called it in. She’s not stupid.”

I know Tidbit. She’s a blonde. Tiny. Been around forever. Still pretty. Good stripper. Forty something passing for twenty something. At least with no bright lights in the room.

“Now, here’s the thing,” the boss says. “Crispin has a bus ticket. Greyhound.”

“A runner,” I say.

“A runner. Stupid fuck. His bus leaves today at 12:30. About three hours from now. Tidbit saw the ticket. Yeah, one ticket. Our boy is no romantic. He’s leaving his girlfriend behind. Said he’d send her money later. So she can join him. Like fuck. What the hell is Tidbit going to do in Florida? Dance for senior citizens? Anyway. Grab Crispin before the bus station. Tidbit will lead him down Prescott street. West side of the street. Pick an alley. There are tons of alleys around there. Grab him. Kill him. Dump him. It’s an easy hit.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What,” the boss says. But he knows. I can see it in his flat, expressionless face. He knows exactly what I’m going to say.

“You want him hit in the middle of the day.”

“Right. This one has a time limit.”

I don’t want to say it. It’s embarrassing.

“Look, Derek,” the boss says. “You’ve only killed at night. I get it. You’re used to that. But this guy is nothing. Less than nothing. You won’t even break a sweat. What, are you superstitious?”

I shake my head.

“How many? Since you started?”

I look at my fingers. Not to count. To picture my hands squeezing around all those necks.

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen in two years. Nothing to sneeze at. All at night. You’ve never failed me. When I give you a nail, you hammer it. So now, mix it up a little. Branch out. Swat a fly during the day. All right?”

“All right,” I say.

“All right,” the boss says. Discussion closed.

But I’m not happy. There’s no explaining it. Even to myself, it makes no sense. The night is safer. What happens at night is only half real. The dark keeps it out of my head. I don’t have to carry it around. It’s buried in shadow.

But I don’t have words for it. None I can say out loud.

Prescott street. There are dozens of alleys to choose from. Just like the boss said. One particular dead end alley seems best. There’s an out-of-business vacuum store on one side. On the other, a scummy bar. It won’t open for hours. There’s a high wooden fence. Empty lots on the other side. There’s a bend at the end of the alley. A dumpster tucked in a corner. No one from the street will see us. Back here, it’s a world to itself.

I stand at the mouth of the alley. I wait. I lean against a concrete wall. It’s gray. I’m gray. I have cultivated a gray quality. It’s part of my job.

The street is quiet. Businesses have failed. No reason for cars to drive here. Little foot traffic.

An hour later. I see Crispin and Tidbit. They’re slow. And they’re on the wrong side of the street. East side. The boss told me west. I curse under my breath. Tidbit fucked up, maybe. Or the boss got it wrong.

I’ll have to leave the alley I’ve grown to love. Cross the street. I’ve planned for the alley. I’ll stick with it. Just have to move Crispin. Get him to the alley. What if he runs?

I cross over. I wait on the sidewalk. Tidbit is carrying one suitcase. Crispin is carrying the other. As they approach me, I hear him talking.

“Baby, you know I love you. When I get to Florida, I can fix things. Relatives will help me. My uncle is big. Big! He’s got connections. There’s a casino. He’ll help me. You have to trust me. I’m not ditching you. Don’t be sad. It’s not goodbye. Listen to me. Listen. Come on, TeeBee. Don’t be like this. Come on.”

On and on like that. Tidbit says nothing. Clearly Crispin can’t figure it out. She’s acting like he’s dying, not leaving. Why would that be? So he keeps trying to convince her.

Of course, he really is dying. He just doesn’t know it yet. Everyone knows it but him.

They get close enough.

“Crispin?” I say casually.

He stops. He looks at me. Not wary. Just curious.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure,” he says. He smiles his loser smile. “I got time.”

Tidbit stops. She puts down the suitcase she was carrying. She doesn’t look at me or Crispin. She just leaves. Back the way she came. Not fast, but not slow. Determined.

“Where’s she going?” Crispin says to himself. He calls out, “Hey! TeeBee!”

Tidbit doesn’t look back. She turns a corner. She’s gone.

“Goddamn it,” Crispin says. “She’s just sore. Because I’m leaving.”

I wonder if he’s on something. He seems friendly, innocent. Doesn’t suspect anyone. Not Tidbit. Not me. His eyes are huge, wide, but see nothing.

“You’re leaving town?” I say.

“Going to Florida,” he says brightly.

“Hmm,” I say. Like it’s a bad idea.

“Do I know you?” he asks me. Still without suspicion.

“We need to talk,” I say. I grab the suitcase Tidbit dropped. It’s not heavy at all. “Come over to my office.”

“I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“It won’t take long.”

I start walking, assuming he’ll follow. And he does. We cross the street. We go into the alley.

“What’s this all about?” he asks.

“This way.”

We go down the alley. We turn the corner. It’s that easy. I’m amazed.

After the enforcers visit, people are spooked. Every shadow is a threat. How can this guy be so dumb? He follows me meekly, curious. He really just wants to know what this is about.

Crispin reminds me of turkeys. When it rains, they stare up at the sky. Rain amazes them. They stand with mouths open. And they drown like that. Or so I’ve heard. It’s probably bullshit.

I feel better in the alley. He’s where I want him. There will be no running. I open the dumpster and throw his suitcase inside.

“Hey!” Crispin says. “What did you do that for?”

I punch him in the chest. One fast, sharp pop. It’s all I need. He’s small. He drops his suitcase, falls back against the fence. He slides to the ground. Now he’s sitting there. Legs out. Back against the fence.

“Ow,” he groans. “Fuck.”

I pick up the other suitcase. I throw it in the dumpster.

It’s noon. Or close to it. The sun is right above us. Hot, white light fills the alley. Everything is ablaze with light. The old graffiti on the fence glows. The pavement in the alley is so greasy, it shines. There are tufts of grass here and there. Broken bottles. Cans. Crispin is looking up at me. His mouth is trembling. His face is bathed in light.

“What is this?” he asks. “What did I ever do to you?”

I’m used to these kinds of questions. Voices in the dark. No faces. I hear them all the time. They think I’m doing this to them. They don’t get they did it to themselves. They feel cheated.

And they never believe they’re going to die. Never. No matter how much they owe. No matter how badly they fucked up. They all think they’re immortal. Even as I strangle them in the dark. They can’t believe it. It’s all a dream. Someone will stop this, they think. There will be a last minute rescue. They’ll wake up soon. But they don’t.

That’s how it goes, in the dark. But this sunlight. Something is different. The world is different. Darkness doesn’t answer questions. But sunlight. What does sunlight do?

“You owe money,” I say. I don’t like to talk, but I’m talking. “They told you to pay. You didn’t pay.”

And Crispin laughs. He’s relieved. He’s actually relieved.

“Oh that,” he says. “I explained that to Vinnie. And the other guy. I told them.”

“You don’t explain to Vinnie. You pay him.”

“But I can get the money. I’m going to get it. I have relatives in Florida.”

Crispin is calm, now. Sprawled on the alley floor. His chest still aching. Hands propping up his scrawny body. His voice is confident. This is a misunderstanding. He can fix this. His certainty annoys me. As does the trembling smile. Always smiling, this moron.

“Do you know why we’re in this alley?” I ask. “Do you know why we’re here? What’s about to happen?”

“What?” Crispin asks. He really has no idea. Everything is a surprise.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say. I wait for the words to sink in, but they don’t. He looks almost skeptical. So I say, “I’m here to kill you.”

“No,” Crispin says. He’s dismissive. He can’t believe it. “No. That doesn’t make sense. I can get the money. Don’t they want the money? I can pay. I told them I can pay. This doesn’t make any sense. Listen. I’ve got an uncle. He lives in Florida. He works for a casino.”

I cut him off. “None of that matters now. It’s too late. You’re dead. When you see me, you’re dead. I kill people. Do you understand?”

Crispin still can’t believe it. “You’re going to kill me? I don’t believe this. That’s crazy. This can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening.”

“No,” he says, with wonder.

I find myself wanting to kick him. I’m not a cruel man. But his stupidity makes me angry.

“How do you think I found you?” I ask.

He blinks. It never occurred to him. “How?”

“Tidbit called us. She led you straight to me. I was waiting.”

“No. Why would she do that?”

“She works for us. She led you to me. As soon as she saw me, she left. So I could kill you.”

“But I love her. She knows I love her. Why would she do that?”

Not angry. Not sad. Simply not understanding.

“She’s a stripper. A whore. She works for us. Who can she trust? You? We pay her rent. What do you give her? You’re leaving. You don’t understand anything. This is the world you live in.”

“I was going to Florida. I’d get money, I’d send for her. We’d spend some time there. Then we’d come back. I’d pay my debts.”

“That was never going to happen.”

“That’s what I was going to do! My uncle lives in Florida. He works at a casino.”

“There is no uncle,” I said. “There is no casino. There isn’t even a Florida.”

“What?”

I let out a long sigh. I hate talking. I hate explaining. But this sun. It gets to me. The hot sun. And his dumb face. Staring. Like a turkey. And I’m the rain. I’m going to drown him.

“You would have got there. A place called Florida. But it’s not the Florida in your head. Your uncle. He’d tell you to fuck off. Say you got some money. Somehow. Dumb luck. You’d tell yourself it wasn’t enough cash. Not for you. Not for your dreams. It’s never going to be enough. You can’t call Tidbit until you have more. So you’d gamble. And you’d lose. You’d go into debt again. And then someone else would kill you. Some Florida killer. Some guy like me. But with a tan. You’d die under a palm tree. Instead of next to a dumpster.”

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t happen like that.”

But he knows it would. I can hear it in his voice. His certainty is gone. So is the smile. It’s all so new to him. He gets it.

“No matter where you go, it leads here. To this alley. To your death.”

“It wouldn’t happen like that,” he says again. Weaker. He can’t make it stick.

“That’s what always happens. That’s why I have a job. That’s why I kill losers like you. So people know how it is. Pay your bills. Or you die. Like Crispin died. Strangled and thrown into a dumpster.”

His big, dumb, blue eyes are wide. He’s in shock. He looks at the dumpster. His coffin. He looks back at me.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

I don’t answer. I step forward, lean over, and grab his throat. And I squeeze. We stare into each other’s eyes. There’s no struggle. He’s given up. This is his fate. He knows that now. Maybe it’s the sunlight. He can see his fate. He can’t hide from it. This is no dream.

His face goes purple. I see it. A faint eggplant colour taints his face. Red floods into his large, blank, blue eyes. His tongue sticks out slightly, swelling. I can feel the pulse in his neck. It’s wild, then slows. His hands reach up, then fall back. His legs kick a little dance.

It’s one of my easiest kills. The boss was right. I don’t even break a sweat. I let go. He falls back, sitting against the fence. Dead.

I search him. I take the bus ticket. I don’t know why. I take the wallet. No money, no credit cards, no pictures. A few receipts. His back pocket holds a pack of gum. I throw it on the ground. Some scraps of paper. Not much else. I pick him up by his waist. He’s small, but still surprisingly light. I throw him in the dumpster. I move the suitcases around. Now the body is covered. Maybe no one will ever see him.

I change my mind. I take out the suitcases. I go through them. Nothing of interest. Crappy clothes. Extra pair of shoes. All of it second hand crap. I rip out then suitcase lining. Nothing. No secrets.

What am I looking for? I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t find it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in a convenience store. There’s a payphone. I call the boss.

“It’s done,” I say.

“Good,” he says.

I hang up.

And it’s all done. Finished.

But it stays with me. For days. For weeks. Everywhere I go. Walking the street. Hanging at the pool hall. The killing stays with me. I can’t shake it.

Crispin’s face. The stupid conversation. The alley. The graffiti. That hot noontime sun. The broken bottles in the grass. The bus ticket to Florida.

I’ve killed seventeen people. I barely remember the others. It was dark. It was quick. I didn’t talk to them. I just strangled them and walked away. Didn’t even search them. There was nothing personal about it. Like washing dishes. Peeling potatoes. A chore.

Killing Crispin stays with me. Not that I feel bad. I just remember. I can’t shrug it off. I see visions of his face. Before and after. I see the time we spent together. I hear his stupid excuses. I get to feeling like he’s a friend of mine.

Maybe it’s a good thing. That’s what I’ve decided. I’ve seen it. Up close. Well lit. I remember it all. It’s not a dream. It’s real.

I know what I do. I know the world I live in.

My Knife Can Cut

2010-08-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

I have a knife and I want to cut someone. Not in a fight. I want someone who wants to be cut.

I remember this girl, a cutter. When she felt numb, she said, she cut herself. Usually on the arm, up high. Or high up on her leg. That was so her clothing would hide the scars. Her name is Ramona. I met her at a party. She was drunk. I guess that's why she told me about cutting. Or maybe she could tell I'm numb too.

My knife is beautiful. It's a kitchen knife, a Christmas present. It seems a shame the knife has never cut anyone. I look Ramona up in the phonebook and call her.

"Hello?"

It's a Sunday afternoon. Around two. She's only spoken one word. Still, I can hear it. Her voice is full of sleep and sadness.

"Ramona. This is Derek. How are you?"

"Derek?" she says.

"We met at a party. In Westboro."

There's a long pause, as she thinks. I can almost hear the wheels grinding together.

"When was that?" she asks.

"Last year. At David's house. His 30th birthday."

Another pause.

She says, "That was two and a half years ago."

"Oh. Okay."

I'm bad with dates and time.

"Derek?" she says again. She's still trying to place me.

"Right."

Another long pause.

"I don't remember you."

"We sat in the kitchen. You were drunk. We talked. I'm kind of bald. Glasses. Fat."

Something clicks in her head. But it's not a memory of me. It's a question she should ask. "Why are you calling me?"

"Do you still cut yourself?"

"What?" she says. Then, too quickly, "No. I don't. I don't do that anymore. That was a long time ago."

"Oh," I say. And I can't hide my disappointment.

"Did I tell you about that? At that party? Christ. Did I?"

"Yes, you told me."

"Oh my god. I'm so embarrassed. God."

Ramona doesn't sound embarrassed. She sounds excited. She likes it. She likes me knowing her secret. Even if she doesn't remember me.

"So you don't do it anymore?" I ask. "Cut yourself?"

Another pause. The wheels grind again.

"Not as often," she says carefully. "I'm a lot better, now. Why? Why are you asking?"

"I have a knife," I say. "It's a beautiful knife. It's long and it's hard. It's shiny. The whole thing. Even the handle is shiny. It's one big piece of metal, carved into a knife. It's the most beautiful knife in the world. And I want to cut someone. But I want them to want it. I don't want to hurt a stranger. I want to sit down with someone. I want them to expose the flesh, where I'll cut. I want to feel the knife cut. I want to feel the person being cut. I want to hear the sounds they make. I want to see how they jerk and twitch. And then I remembered you. And I thought you could come over."

"You're sick," Ramona says. "You're a sick fucking asshole. This isn't funny. Who do you think you are? You can't just call me. More than two fucking years later. You can't just call and say this. You're sick. This isn't a funny joke. You're sick in the head."

And she hangs up on me.

I wait half an hour and then I call her back.

"Hello?" she says, breathless. Excited.

"Ramona, it's Derek again."

"What, Derek?" she asks, angry. "What do you want?"

"It's not a joke," I say. "It's the most beautiful knife if the world. It's not a joke."

A long pause.

"Hello?" I say. I think she's hung up again.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Give me an hour."

I sit on the couch. I stare at the wall. I wait for the buzzer to buzz.

It's January. There's snow everywhere. It's cold. My apartment is warm, even though the heat is off. The surrounding apartments keep mine warm.

When Ramona arrives, she's bundled up. She comes in to my apartment, not saying anything. Her yellow coat has a fur-lined hood. Her white boots have a ruff of fur. Her scarf is a rainbow pattern, with matching mittens. All of these clothes come off. She lets them fall to the floor. Like she doesn't care.

Underneath are black jeans, a blue t-shirt, bare feet. Her hair is short, dyed yellow. No make-up. She is slightly pudgy. Small, but okay boobs. Nice, fat ass. Pretty, in a way. But there's something crazy-looking about her face. Her eyes are huge, blue, terrified. The corners of her mouth droop, even as she smiles. She tries smiling now, nervous. Her smile looks broken.

Ramona says, "I don't even know why I'm here."

She knows why she's here. But I don't correct her.

Her eyes lock on to mine. Her pupils tremble and spin.

"Do you want to see it?" I ask her.

"See what?" she asks, and licks her lips.

"The knife."

"Oh. Sure. I guess."

"Have a seat," I say, pointing at a couch. "Wait here."

I go into the kitchen. When I come back, she's sitting right on the edge. Tense.

I hold out my hands, palms up. The knife is lying on my hands. A holy thing. It glows in the dim light. Ramona looks at it. Her pupils twitch in her motionless eyes.

"It is beautiful," Ramona admits. She reaches out.

I back away. "Don't touch it. It's mine. You're not allowed to touch it. That's part of the deal. It's mine and you can't touch it."

"Okay, okay."

She thinks I'm weird. I am weird.

I take the knife by the handle. I hide it behind my back.

"I want to cut you on the arm," I say.

Ramona goes pale, and then blushes. She crosses her arms under her breasts. Then she uncrosses her arms. She leans back on the couch, slowly squirming.

I indicate a place on my own left arm. "Here," I say. "Inside your arm. Just below the armpit. A long red cut. Slow. Not deep. You can hold your arm over your head. The blood will run down your arm. Down your side."

"Why?" she whispers. "Why do you want to cut me?"

"I just do. That's all. I have to cut someone."

"You're crazy," she says. But it comes out sounding different. It sounds more like she thinks I'm romantic.

"I just want to cut someone."

I can't explain it. I shrug. There is no explanation. It's something that has to happen. I want it to happen.

"Why me?" Ramona asks. "Why do you want to cut me?"

I tilt my head slightly. "Because you're someone who wants to be cut."

The questions are confusing me. Why is she making this so complicated?

Ramona looks sad. Maybe she's going to cry. A thought comes to me. Maybe she wants to be special. She doesn't like that I'll cut anyone who let's me.

Then she changes her mind. Apparently it's all okay, somehow. Maybe she likes that she could be anyone.

I don't understand her. I don't care. I just want to cut her.

"Should I take my shirt off?" she asks.

"Yes."

"I'm not wearing a bra," she warns.

"I don't care."

She takes off her shirt. She covers her breasts with her hands. Then she breathes deeply. Her hands move away. Her breasts are small, but okay. They're attractive enough.

"Maybe I should take off all my clothes," she says. The idea excites her.

I shrug. "If you want."

She stands up, pulls off her jeans. Underneath is a black thong. She takes it off too. Then she quickly sits down on the couch. She is naked. And slowly, it dawns on her she's naked.

"What am I doing here?" she mutters. She's confused, but happy. "Why am I doing this?"

I don't say anything. What can I say?

Slowly, Ramona lifts her left arm. Her hand is loose at the top. The fingers are splayed, dangling. Her face blushes red again. It's cute.

"I am so fucking horny right now," she says. She doesn't look at me. "Are you?"

"I'm not going to fuck you," I say. "I'm just going to cut you."

"Okay," she says. Maybe she's slightly disappointed. "That's fine."

Then she seems to change her mind. Maybe being cut is exciting enough.

I sit down on the couch next to her. I move, so I'm kneeling on the couch. I grab her left wrist in my left hand. I hold her wrist, tight, so she won't move. Ramona lets out a soft moan. I lift the knife up in my right hand. Where to cut? I position the knife. It feels like I'm about to play the cello. Her arm is my instrument. Ramona's breaths are shallow and quick. Her nipples are pink, erect. She smells clean. She must have showered, before coming over.

The knife glints. I hold it steady. I find the spot. And I draw it across her arm. I pull slowly, dragging one low sweet note from Ramona. The sound of it thrums and growls. It fills my apartment. It's like a moan from sex, but softer. It aches. It's the taking of a woman's virginity. It's bliss.

I move back, step away. I want to see.

"Keep your arm up," I say.

She does. The blood flows down, into her armpit. Then around her breast. Down to her waist. Not a lot of blood. Just enough.

Ramona looks different. It's the difference between a photograph and a person. She's suddenly here. Before, she was just a young woman. There were a million like her. Cut, she's alive. She's passionate. Her lips are fuller. Her eyes are small and hard and real. She's lost her craziness. Her body is tighter. No wonder she cuts herself. It makes her human. It makes her beautiful. Real. Present. Alive.

But it doesn't last. The moment passes. She lowers her arm. She puts her right hand over the cut. Her lips grow narrow. Her body plumps out again. She's pretty, now. She's not beautiful.

It hurts me, to see her go back again. Back to how she was. I feel crushing disappointment.

"Okay," I say. "You can go."

"What?"

She's an addict coming out of the fog of drugs. The high is gone, but she's not awake yet.

"You can go. We're done."

She blinks her big crazy eyes. I miss who she was. It hurts to look at her now.

"Done?" Ramona says.

She gets to her feet. She's pretty, naked. But it's not what I want.

Ramona pulls on her thong. She feels exposed, vulnerable. Her wound is still bleeding, a little. She's having a little trouble keeping her balance.

I'm tired of looking at her. I look at my knife instead. I hear her start to cry. It seems to go on forever. I hear her put on her jeans, zip them up. She gets a little control over herself.

"I'm still bleeding," she says. She wants help, sympathy.

There's a pause. I'm reluctant to help. I go find some gauze, a bandage wrap. I bring them back. I don't want to touch her. I give them to her.

She puts the gauze on the wound, wraps it. Then she puts on her t-shirt.

Ramona says, "I used to do this alone. Cut myself. It was weird, having you there."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What?" she gasps. "Why?"

"We're done."

"What do you mean?"

"That's it. We're done."

"You asked me over. I came. I let you cut me."

"And we're done," I say, forceful. "It's finished."

I walk over to the door. Her coat and boots and scarf and mittens are there. She slowly comes over.

"That's it then?" she says.

I don't say anything.

She starts getting dressed. She's angry. But she's also sad. She feels used. But then, what did she expect? I see all of this in her movements.

"Fuck you," she says. "You're a sick fuck."

She slams the door as she leaves.

I stand there for a while. I look at the knife. It's all so disappointing. I had such high hopes. Instead, it was fleeting, meaningless.

I go into the kitchen. I find the box the knife came in. I put the knife inside the box.

"Worst Christmas present ever," I say to myself. "Thanks, mom. Thanks for nothing."

And I throw the knife in the trash.

Mickey Jesus and the Turd of Turin

2010-07-13T14:42:00.001-04:00

In Russia, you can’t make fun of the Church or Jesus Christ. Recently, some art curators put on a show called “Forbidden Art”. It featured Jesus with the face of Mickey Mouse, as well as the suggestion that McDonald’s is the body of Christ. They also compared Christ and Lenin.

The curators were fined 200,000 roubles and 150,000 roubles for inciting religious hatred. They got off easy. Some people of faith were calling for the men to be thrown in jail. Apparently they could have each been sentenced to three years.

Of course, all right thinking people know the curators are entirely in the wrong. Making fun of religion is a terrible thing. It’s important that we respect people with religious beliefs – no matter how stupid, or idiotic, or just plain wrong those beliefs might be.

I consider myself a Christian. Mind you, I’m not talking about the church of today. I’m talking about the old, original Christian faith – the one that existed before the Catholic Church came along and ruined everything.

I’ll explain…

The perfect poop comes out in one long effortless flow. When you go to wipe, there is nothing on the paper. It’s divine. It’s a miracle.

The dumps of Jesus Christ were always like this. He could wipe his butt, then take that toilet paper and use it as a napkin. That’s how clean the paper was. Zero e-coli. That’s the true power of Christ, friends.

I had one of these poops today. (Praise God!) My fantastic feces was an answer to a prayer. I swear my turd had a little halo and was playing a tiny harp.

Or maybe it was some undigested strands of celery. I can’t be certain, but I have faith. (Can I get an amen?)

I was reluctant to flush. I wanted to drag friends, family, and coworkers into the bathroom and show them my filth ribbon. We could all bask in this religious experience, maybe say a prayer or two. (Can I get a Hallelujah?)

Oh sure, I could have photographed my chocolate hot dog and emailed out pictures. But to really appreciate the beauty, you’d have to witness it in person. No email could present you with the sense of rightness and perfection in the room. No photo could capture the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air.

When I did flush, that lump of digested love didn’t go down the drain – it floated up to heaven in a beam of white light. Angels sang. I’m not ashamed to admit, I shed a few tears. (Praise Jesus.)

Few people know this, but the bible used to be a manual for healthy digestion. The Catholic church came along and ruined everything. The Pope knows all about it. His very name – “The Pope” – says it all. In the old days, when things made sense, he was called “The Poop”.

Jesus famously said, “The meek shall inherit the earth.”

What people don’t know is that those words are a metaphor for how to property take a crap. Don’t bear down or force out your dumps. Simply wait, patient and “meek”, as your bowels do the work for you. The “earth” is, of course, slang for feces. You shall “inherit the earth” – take a crap – much more quickly, if you’re meek about it.

It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?

Communion booths used to be toilet stalls. It’s common knowledge. Ask any historian. You’d sit there on your throne, with a priest right next to you. He would talk softly, encouraging you to release your sacred fecal sausage in the proper, gentle, healthy way.

Jesus said: “A rich man getting into heaven is as likely as a camel walking through the eye of a needle – and your anus will feel the same way if you don’t eat enough fruit.”

The church removed the second half of the quote.

But why? Why would the church hide these references to having a healthy colon?

It’s simple. Communion wafers have almost zero fibre in them. Instead of using whole grain flour, the priests cut corners. They made these flat, lifeless wafers that have zero nutritional value.

“How can we justify this contradiction?” the priests asked themselves. “On the one hand, we have a holy book full of healthy digestion tips. On the other hand, we have these mass produced, white bread, colon-clogging wafers that are the nutritional equivalent of Twinkies.”

So they cut a few lines out of the bible. You know, to cover their asses.

That’s why priests always look so constipated – because they’re constipated. They’ve lost touch with the old ways. As have we all. We’re all, if you’ll pardon the expression, full of shit.

We need to get back in touch with religion. We need to get back to our roots. So long as Russian intellectuals and artists are permitted to mock the church, we’re never going to establish Christ in the world again. We’ve created a godless world, and we have no one to blame but ourselves.

The next time someone pokes fun at Jesus Christ, lock them in jail and throw away the key. That’s what I say. No exceptions, no excuses.

(Can I get a laxative? Please?)

Blame The Victim (Just a Little)

2010-06-16T19:44:00.001-04:00

“Don’t blame the victim,” people say, out of habit. The phrase has become a truism. Victims are without blame. Bad things happened to them, and it’s not their fault.

Wait. That doesn’t sound right, does it? Aren’t there situations when a victim deserves some share of the blame? If you’re in a bad situation, and you can escape, but you choose not to, are you really a victim? Are you entirely without blame? Shouldn’t you shoulder some of the responsibility for your situation?

(Now watch me carefully avoid gender issues, and talk specifically about lesbian relationships. And while we are in parentheses, let me add that all of the following dialogue is made-up. These are not actual quotes, although the stories are real.)

A woman – let’s call her “Susan” – calls up a sex and relationship advice show. Susan says she’s about to move in with her girlfriend, “Tabitha”. The two of them were packing some things at Susan’s apartment, getting ready for the move in a month or two. One of the items being packed was a shoe box full of old photographs.

“What’s this?” Tabitha asked.

“Oh, it’s old photos of people I know,” Susan said. “Old flames, old relationships. I haven’t looked at these in years.”

“You need to get rid of these pictures, if you’re going to move in with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m your girlfriend,” Tabitha said. “I should be enough for you now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m completely serious.”

They had several fights about it, and Tabitha refused to back down on her demand. The photographs had to go.

Susan calls the sex advice show and asks: is Tabitha being reasonable? Is this crazy?

“Oh, and by the way,” Susan adds, “whenever I go away on business trips, Tabitha freaks out, convinced I’m having an affair. When I get back, I spend hours convincing her nothing is happening behind her back. Tabitha is jealous of all of my friends, and is starting to scare some of them away. In fact, I think Tabitha just wants me all to herself, out of jealousy and low self-esteem.”

Luckily for Susan, the host of the show is Dan Savage. He’s renowned for his clear, honest talk. He calls Susan and tells her in no uncertain terms:

Do not move in with Tabitha. This is an abusive relationship. Tell Tabitha to get a shrink to help her deal with her jealousy issues and insecurities. If she gets the help she needs, then re-evaluate moving in with her a year from now. If she refuses to get help, if she insists you move in together now, dump her. Save yourself. You are entering a very bad place.

As Savage tries to talk sense to Susan, she hems and haws, and tries to make excuses.

“I hear what you’re saying,” she says, “but Tabitha has had a really tough life. Really tough.”

You are not a social worker, Savage answers. You are not a therapist. Your girlfriend isn’t your pet project. She’s not a fixer-upper. Tabitha needs to get help on her own. You’re supposed to be with her as an equal, whom you love. Tabitha needs to fix herself.

Susan waffles some more, but half-heartedly agrees that maybe Dan Savage is right.

(After he’s done with the call, Dan Savage admits feeling a little guilty. Here’s Susan, struggling with her bully girlfriend Tabitha. And what did Dan do? Try to bully Susan into doing the right thing. Now she’s dealing with two bullies instead of one. All the same, Dan stands by his advice.)

Let’s assume the worst, and imagine that Susan completely ignores the advice she received.

“That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Susan tells herself. “He doesn’t know any of the details. I love Tabitha, and I know we can work through our problems. Tabitha has had a hard life, and I’m not about to abandon her just because she has a temper.”

Susan and Tabitha move in together. The relationship quickly sours. Tabitha is never physically violent, but she comes close, now and then. She’s definitely emotionally abusive, extremely jealous, and constantly demanding reassurances. Susan devotes way too much energy to keeping Tabitha sane. Susan has to constantly be on tiptoes, never knowing what she might do or say that sets Tabitha off. Despite all of Susan’s efforts, Tabitha gets crazier, more jealous, more emotionally unstable.

Say we enter the scene now. We don’t know the past; we know nothing of Susan’s earlier hesitations, or about her calling Dan Savage. What do we see? Who has what role?

Tabitha is the abuser. Susan is the victim.

(I’m trying to keep gender out of this, but maybe I’d better say this: we’d definitely assign the roles of abuser and victim if this relationship involved a cruel man and a suffering woman, instead of two women.)

As the “victim”, is Susan entirely without blame? Of course not. She should have known better, long before entering this relationship. She had misgivings. She got good advice – Dan Savage tried to warn her – and she ignored it.

What if Susan stays in a relationship with Tabitha for years, continuing to be abused and treated poorly? Can we really call her a “victim”? Or, on some level, is she doing this to herself? Tabitha is a monster – there’s no denying it. But shouldn’t Susan take some of the responsibility for her situation? She’s an adult. No matter what her psychological background and predispositions, she made a choice. Every day she stays with Tabitha, she renews that choice.

A week after Susan’s call to Dan Savage, another woman called. She praised Dan for advising Susan not to move in with Tabitha.

“Where were you 15 years ago?” she said, laughing. Then her laugh fell apart and she started to cry. Because 15 years ago, she entered an abusive relationship. She has stayed in it, for 15 long years, and she can’t take it anymore. She has lost all her friends and all her family. All she has is her abusive girlfriend. And she feels trapped.

Listening to her grief was extremely painful; it brought me close to tears. The woman was in agony.

Dan Savage’s advice to this caller was clear: You can escape. You have to escape. Listen to yourself. Listen to how much pain you are in. You have to get out of this situation. Call on your family or your old friends – even if you haven’t spoken to them in years. Tell them you fucked up, that you’re in an abusive relationship, and if they help you, you will make it up to them. You can get out of this. Your life may seem horrible, and you can’t imagine a world where you’re free, but you can be free. And then, once you escape, you can start building a new life for yourself – one where you get to be happy.

I genuinely hope this woman escapes her nightmare. Hearing her pain, even just through a phone call on a podcast, was heart-breaking.

Being in an emotionally abusive relationship creates a sense of powerlessness. There’s this other person, who is crazy, a nightmare, your enemy – but also your lover. You feel like you can’t do anything to escape. You want the relationship to work. This idea gets stuck in your head:

“If only I’m better, if only I work to save this, then things will improve. I have to be the sane one. I can’t make any demands of my partner. They’re under so much stress as it is.”

There are good days, and you feel like things are working out. There are bad days, and you somehow manage to shrug them off – even as things get worse over time.

You get stuck here, in this loop of misery.

If you ever hope to escape, you need to change how you think:

“I’m in a bad situation – but I’m letting this happen. I’m allowing it to exist. I’m not powerless. If I want things to change, I have to do things differently. I can get out of here.”

People say, “Don’t blame the victim.” Ironically enough, the only way to get out of the bad situation is for the victim to accept a small portion of the blame. They have to acknowledge they are doing nothing to change their situation, or that what they’ve done up until now isn’t working. They need to take some responsibility, struggle past that feeling of powerlessness, admit they have some control, and change their world.

Intellectually, none of this seems like a huge revelation to me. My argument strikes me as perfectly logical.

And yet emotionally, it goes against a lot of the things I’ve been taught in life. Some people are disadvantaged, stuck, struggling, but more or less doomed to their state. We make excuses for them. We can’t fault people for the position they find themselves in. “Blaming the victim” is harsh and judgemental and wrong. If you were in their shoes, would you be able to do any better? In some cases, yes, you could – but we’re not supposed to think that.

And we certainly can’t blame ourselves for our own problems. My troubles are caused by genetics, social forces, bureaucracies, things bigger than me. The deck is stacked against me. Nothing is my fault.

You can sum up all of this rationalizing nonsense in that phrase, “Don’t blame the victim.”

If victims really cannot be blamed for their trouble, then all you have to do to “solve” your problem is find a way to call yourself a victim. Someone else is making life hard for you. Whether it’s the government, large corporations, the way your parents raised you – someone else did this to you. Now you can fixate on them, and you’re blameless.

(Let me throw some exceptions out there: in almost all cases, children and rape victims aren’t to blame for what happened to them.)

I’m fat. I can blame all the crappy food in vending machines, McDonald’s, the way my parents fed me, or a hundred other factors. But, in the end, I’m the guy who puts the food in my mouth. So who else can I blame, besides myself? If I want to lose weight, I have to take responsibility for my own actions, and bring about change.

Drug addicts, the poor, workers trapped in dead end jobs, or anyone facing a situation they don’t like are all in the same boat. People need to take responsibility, take some of the blame, for at least some of their situation, and then choose to act differently. They need to throw away their victimhood, their sense of helplessness, and fight.

Forget the idea of not blaming the victim. Instead, think of it this way:

If you’re unhappy, admit you’re unhappy, and do something to pursue happiness.

Everything else is bullshit.

See also:

http://www.zurinstitute.com/victimhood.html

Creative Rage 3: An Imaginary Conversation

2010-06-11T22:13:00.000-04:00

A: I don’t really have any problems. Sure, my childhood sort of sucked, but other people had it worse. I grew up in a house. I had enough food. Why should I think about my pain? Why look at it? Why waste time on it? Instead, I can help people who have it worse, like the homeless.

B: So what you're basically saying is -- why should you wipe your own ass, when the streets are so dirty?

A: What? No, I’m not saying that. What are you talking about?

B: You want to know why you should deal with your past, with your pain? You have personal problems and you know it. You need to deal with them – for the exact same reason you have to wipe your own ass. No one will wipe it for you. It's your pain. It’s your asshole. Nobody wants to deal with your shit. You have to deal with it. You're saying you don't have to clean up your mess, because there are bigger messes out there. So it's okay if you walk around smelling like shit, because 30 miles from here there's a landfill heaped with dirty diapers and rotting fish heads?

A: I don’t smell like shit. I deal with my crap, in my way. I'm saying, I don't have a lot of emotional pain, compared to other people. There is nothing to deal with. My problems are small potatoes.

B: Everybody says that. It’s a way of avoiding their problems.

I met a woman once, and she was telling me a bit about herself. She worked at a store that sold underwear and she was studying at Concordia.

“I guess I’m a bit boring,” she said. “But I guess everyone finds themselves boring.”

And I blurted out, “Not me. I find myself endlessly fascinating. I can’t wait to see what I do next.”

A: Yeah, that sounds like you – you’re a self-centred egomaniac.

B: You’re missing the point. If you find yourself boring, you’re doing something wrong. You should find yourself fascinating. Your problems, your stories, everything about your life is yours. You should find yourself entertaining. If you think you’re boring, small, not worth looking at, then you’re not dealing with you. You’re belittling yourself and who you are. In effect, what you’re saying is, “I’m too boring and small to take seriously.”

A: Sounds like you think I should spend all day wiping my own ass.

B: Well, not all day. No. You need some balance between wiping your ass, and wiping the asses of other people.

A: Helping the homeless and fighting for social justice is important. That’s what I do to help myself. I make the world a better place. I improve my lot by making other people’s lives better. Engaging other people pulls me out of my shell.

B: If you spend your whole life helping others, thinking of others, and you never help yourself, you’ve failed. You’re using other people to avoid dealing with your own problems.

A: I just don’t have time for all that navel-gazing bullshit.

B: Your problems are small, boring. You don’t have time to deal with your problems. How many other excuses do you have? Why are you so mean to yourself? You would help another person in your situation. You do have problems, right? Why not help yourself then? Are you going to spend your whole life, fighting for other people, and never fight for yourself? How can you effectively fight for others, if you can’t fight for yourself?

A: You’re just pushing for people to be selfish and self-centred. It’s disgusting.

B: Am I being selfish? If I deal with my own problems, and make myself a better person, doesn’t that improve everyone’s lives? If you don’t deal with your problems, other people will have to carry your weight. They’ll have to clean up your mess, wipe your ass. When you don’t deal with your own problems, you’re the one that’s being selfish.

A: That’s typical conservative drivel. Be self reliant. Let’s not have a government at all. It’s libertarian nonsense.

B: And I thought you were an anarchist! Aren’t “self reliance” and “no government” exactly what you’re striving for? I know, I know – you’re going to replace government with some kind of collective, not individuals. Hence the difference between libertarians and anarchists.

A: You don’t get any political stuff at all. You’re a fucking idiot.

B: Fine. I never studied political science. But don’t all political parties dream of a world with a social safety net that no one ever needs to use? Isn’t that what the people of all political stripes want?

A: Whatever. I still think you’re being a libertarian, conservative asshole.

B: But self-reliance can have a socialist aspect to it. I heard a Green Party speaker once. He argued that smokers are a drain on the Canadian health care system. Some guy smokes for 20 years, he gets lung cancer, and he expects all of us to pay his medical bills. Why should we? He knew smoking causes cancer. He smoked for years. He should have quit smoking and taken responsibility for his problems, saving us the expense of dealing with his medical problems.

When I heard that, being a non-smoker, I laughed. And I said to myself: “That’s exactly right. Goddamn smokers are assholes. Hang em out to dry.”

And then the speaker went on to say, “Same thing with people who are overweight. They have heart attacks, they get diabetes, they have all kinds of preventable medical problems, if only they would lose weight.”

And I stopped laughing. Because I’m overweight. It’s my problem, and I really don’t want to deal with it.

Or at least, I didn’t want to. But I’ve been dealing with my problems lately. I’ve been looking at my life, trying to improve, getting my act together. You know – what you’d call “being selfish” or “navel gazing”.

Part of that process has involved changing the way I eat. I’m counting calories. And since April 17th, I’ve lost 25 pounds. My goal is to lose 80 pounds by December.

Mind you, I didn’t start losing weight for the betterment of humanity. I was having problems with constipation, and my doctor told me to lose weight. Even then, I didn’t change. I ate more fibre now and then. That helped. But the constipation kept coming back.

Finally, I snapped. I’d had enough of the inconvenience and pain. I grabbed my constipation by the balls and I said, “Look, motherfucker. I’m going to lose weight. I’m going to deal with my problems. So fuck off.”

A: So you’re on a diet -- again. Big fucking deal.

B: It’s not a diet. I’ve changed the way I eat and the way I think about food. I keep a food log online, writing down everything I eat. That makes eating chips or cookies or other crap impossible – because I don’t want to have to write it down. When you start to look at the calories in some foods, it’s disturbing. I used to go to Starbucks and have two oat fudge brownies and a large latte. Now I know better – that little snack is over 1,000 calories.

I’m working out on my elliptical trainer for half an hour almost every morning. I’m walking more. I’m improving myself. I’m wiping my own ass.

A: That’s great, I guess. But it’s still selfish. It has nothing to do with anyone but you.

B: If I’m healthy, my chances of needing heart surgery in my 60s is lessened. People won’t have to carry my load. If getting in to shape is selfish, it’s exactly the sort of selfishness we should promote in people. Why do you think governments have nutrition and anti-smoking programs? If people look after themselves, if they stand on their own two feet, if they’re healthy, and they quit smoking too much, and drinking too much – the world is a better place, and the health care system can focus on other issues. If I deal with my problems and take care of myself, you don’t have to. No one else has to carry my weight.

A: Not everyone is lucky enough to be able to do that. Some people need our help.

B: Of course! And you are one of those people. You’re so eager to be generous with other people, and you’re so stingy with yourself. When you think about your life and your problems, ask yourself, “What would I do to help someone else with my problems?” And then do that thing for yourself. You’re just as worthy of help as anyone else, right?

A: You don’t understand. Your emphasis on helping yourself, taking care of yourself, and positive selfishness – that’s exactly the sort of crap conservative thinkers and capitalists use to perpetuate the slavery of the poor. Everything wrong with the world right now is caused by selfishness. Thinking only about yourself means people don’t band together and fight for social change and social justice. Selfish people think about their cars, their electronic gadgets, their own comfort. They never think about the consequences of their choices.

B: You think so? I think if people genuinely looked at themselves and their own self-interests, they’d be more likely to deal with the real word instead of consumer trappings. All of that STUFF is a distraction from the real work. Fixing yourself, making yourself better, doesn’t necessarily involve BUYING stuff. And look, I’m not telling you to ONLY think of yourself. You need to strike a balance between yourself and the rest of the world.

I think if we get our own shit together, we can then do a better job dealing with the rest of the world. When we get stronger and saner, we becoming a better force for change.

A: I still think I can improve myself by helping other people. Going out, participating in political events, protests, political actions – that’s how I’m improving myself. Don’t you get that?

B: I’m sure that helps you, a little. And I’m not telling you to stop doing any of that. But, just like with consumerism, you’re using it as a distraction. A lot of people are uncomfortable with who they are, their own feelings, their own problems. You’re focusing on the problems of other people to escape your own problems. I did that for years, worrying about other people and neglecting myself. You need to give yourself as much attention and care as you seem to give the homeless.

A: You don’t get it. You don’t understand anything. And you didn’t used to be like this. You’ve really changed.

B: For the better.

A: I think you’ve changed for the worse.

B: That’s fine. You’re allowed to think whatever you want, and do whatever you want. No matter what I say.

Honestly, I don’t know why I keep trying to share my new thinking with you. I guess, in part, it’s because I feel we have common problems. And when I talk about what I’m going through, it helps me understand myself better.

You get angry and swear at me and call me an “Ayn Rand lover”. That makes me laugh. But it also keeps me questioning, thinking, and testing my ideas. The friction is useful.

A: Well, I guess that’s good, as long as you’re still thinking. You need to question these new ideas of yours. Your new found interest in selfishness really disgusts and offends me. It’s boring. I think you’re going the wrong way.

B: And I think you’re going the wrong way. But hey, we can both go whatever way we choose, right? I just worry you’re going to wake up a few years from now, and realize you don’t know who you are, or what you want. You won’t have a career, you won’t have a lover, you won’t have a stable home – all because you spent so much time thinking about other people, and never about yourself. I genuinely worry you will find out you’ve become a vacuum, a void, a hole in space where a person used to be.

A: That’s not going to happen. That’s crazy. I don’t even know why you’d think that.

B: It happened to me. I woke up one day and realized I wasn’t there. I was hanging out with people who couldn't hear me, who wouldn't let me speak. But I’m fixing that. I am in the room now, demanding space.

A: Well, it’s not going to happen to me, this void stuff you're talking about. I don’t need your advice. I can take care of myself.

B: That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I’m not sure you are taking care of yourself. But I hope you’re right. I hope you never feel that way. Waking up to your own emptiness isn't much fun.

A: Sounds like a midlife crisis to me. Typical bourgeois, first world problems.

B: Maybe. But if it's my problem, I'm going to deal with it.

Creative Rage 2: an elaboration

2010-06-04T20:16:00.001-04:00

Selfishness is bad. That's what we're taught from day one. “Stop thinking about yourself and think about others for a change!” The theory is that most of us are born selfish, and need to be trained to cooperate, share, and care about others. Without this education, we would all be monsters, stabbing each other, hoarding treasure, and eating the poor.

I'm not convinced everyone needs to be taught selflessness. Some of us are pretty selfless already, to a fault. Weak, spineless milquetoasts always find themselves buckling under when someone makes demands. They can’t say no. They swallow their own beliefs and go along with the desires of others. The world is full of such people.

And lately, I'm forced to admit I am one of them. I need to learn how to be more selfish.

"What?” say a few choice people. “That's bullshit! You're one of the most selfish people I know!"

(Okay, okay – let’s be honest: one choice person says this. And he knows who he is.)

No, friend, I'm not selfish. If I appear that way, it's because I often isolate myself from others. I do this to avoid being pressured into doing something I don't want to do. It's difficult to face people and risk being engulfed by their needs. It's easier to hide.

When I get asked for something, I typically find myself overwhelmed with empathy for the point of view of the other person. I used to brag that I can sympathize with any person or position I encounter. Serial killers and child molesters can sway me with their arguments - which is a ridiculous way for me to be.

There are times when empathy ceases to be a benefit and becomes a liability. That point is reached when my own beliefs and desires seem vague and mysterious, but the desires of others make perfect sense. Instead of being an advocate for myself and my own perspective, I end up being an advocate for the person arguing with me.

When an acquaintance asks for a favour, I find myself thinking:

"Well, who am I to say no? Maybe they're right. Maybe their perspective does make more sense than my own. They certainly seem to make sense."

To put it in therapy speak, I have a weak sense of "boundaries". The line between myself and another person is soft, at best.

An example:

"Hey Nik! Do you want to go to some bar, and see some band?"

In my heart, the answer is no. It’s totally not my thing. But I let myself be pressured by the person. I give in. I go along with their desires and ignore my own.

Doing something to support a friend once in a while is noble. The problem is, I find myself giving in every single time I'm asked. I always forget to consider what it is that I want.

It's only later, at the concert, that I grumble quietly to myself. What am I doing here? How did I end up in this situation? I hate this band; everyone around me is drunk; my ears ache from the noise. How did I end up in this position?

I feel angry. I feel like an idiot for doing something I don't want to do. I resent my friend for "dragging me" there. Simultaneously, I feel like I have no real right to complain. No one held a gun to my head. I went of my own free will. My friend didn't do anything wrong. I did.

There's another weird aspect to all of this -- in the past, I have viewed this fault as a strength. My ability to over-empathize once seemed like a talent. “I can empathize with criminals!” The same thing is true of my willingness to accommodate others. I used to think it meant I was a good and supportive friend, who was up for anything. Isn't that something to be admired?

Now I get it. If I constantly give in to the needs and desires of other people, it doesn't make me a good person. It makes me LESS of a person, MORE of a shadow.

Which is why I need to be more selfish. Maybe “selfish” isn’t the right word. Maybe I just need to be more vocal about how I feel and what I want.

For example:

I need a day's notice, minimum, before I can engage in some kind of social activity. That's how I work. You can't just call me and say, "Let's go hang out right now!" I can't do it. I need a day or so to steel myself, for interaction. Why? Because I'm an introvert, and I find being with other people draining. That's how I am, right or wrong, and those are my rules. For now.

Is this unreasonable? I don't think so. But some part of me immediately starts making excuses and arguments -- for other people.

"Why can't you be spontaneous? You can't just get together with me, at a minute's notice? What's wrong with you? There's introverted, and then there's being a stick in the mud. Dude, you need to relax!"

If you're not me, this is a perfectly reasonable argument. But I am me. I know how I work, and I need a day's notice. Sorry.

No, wait. Fuck that. I'm not sorry.

And then there's Ayn Rand.

I hate Ayn Rand. I think she was a lunatic, not to mention something much worse – a bad writer. Unfortunately, she is famous for saying that selfishness is good. And when I talk about boundaries and being true to myself and all of that, I feel like I'm defending the beliefs of Ayn Rand.

(And certain “friends” of mine hear me say, “Maybe people need to be more selfish,” and they start calling me a Randroid. Why? Because those “friends” are actually assholes.)

Let’s be clear – there’s the libertarian view of selfishness, and then there’s just not letting other people walk all over you. Libertarians want as little taxation and government as possible. They want to be left alone -- with their money.

I’m a socialist (more or less) and I recognize the value of taxing the rich and spreading the wealth. Libertarians claim if they were taxed less, they would give more to charity. This strikes me as horseshit. Left to their own devices, the wealthy sit atop piles of gold and defend their wealth with a machine gun.

American Vice-President Joe Biden once famously said that paying taxes is patriotic. He later tried to back away from that statement as quickly as possible. Which is weird, because I think he’s right. If you love something, believe in something, and want to support it, you do so with your heart and your time and your wallet.

No libertarian thinks this way. If Ayn Rand heard me saying this stuff, she’d punch me in the face.

The selfishness I advocate is purely psychological. Stand up for what you believe, and argue your own point of view. Defend yourself. Express yourself.

Trouble is, my overly selfless asshole friends see this as one step closer to Conservative, capitalist, Libertarian madness. Somehow, they miss all the subtle nuances, and jump straight to, “You like Ayn Rand!”

And they say it in that childish teasing tone reserved for school yard taunts.

So let me counter their arguments with a witty pre-emptive strike: Go fuck yourself, you unthinking, pre-programmed fucktards.

How did I become a milquetoast in the first place?

I suspect that’s how we were raised in my family. If someone wanted to go into your room, they did. If they wanted to take all the posters off your walls and give them to a friend, they did. On one memorable occasion, I pissed off one of my brothers (probably by smashing their heads together) and one of them (or both?) pissed on my pillow for revenge. None of these acts resulted in parental consequences of any kind.

Someone summarized our family's insanity with a choice sentence. He meant it to be a compliment, but it’s pretty damning:

"There is no expectation of privacy in the Maack family."

Which means if you tell someone a secret, they're free to share it with anyone.

All of this adds up to one thing: we were raised without boundaries.

Like I said previously, people often mistake their strengths for weaknesses and their weaknesses for strengths. If you’re raised without boundaries, this can seem like a positive thing.

“We can talk about anything with each other. We’re all so close. There’s no small talk in our family. We share everything. We're not like other families, where nothing gets discussed.”

Instead, each person in the family is a bucket of slop, constant spilling their lives into other people, everyone getting mixed together and lost. Everyone is diminished. Nothing ever getting accomplished.

One quick and dirty example: my parents have been at war with each other for as long as I can remember. A parent with a good sense of boundaries would understand that you don’t drag your kids into that fight. My parents regularly shared their grief with us – and expected us to choose sides in their battles. They continue to do this to this very day.

Having a sense of self, being a complete person, having boundaries, means being able to move through the world and make choices. When everyone around you is a potential threat, breaking into your headspace and changing you, you’re in trouble. A person needs to be somewhat self-contained, to be capable of dealing with the world.

While mulling over all of this, I heard a quote which summed it up nicely:

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?”
-- Rabbi Hillel

Obviously, it’s the first sentence of the quote that interests me most. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Or, to put it another way, if I don’t take myself seriously, why should anyone else?

Strangely, many of us milquetoast-types choke on this idea of “being for ourselves”. There’s this sense that we must always think of others, act for others, BE for others. But I need some balance. If I’m always thinking of the people around me, and never of myself, I can’t really help the people around me. I end up resenting them.

At heart, it all comes back to riding an airplane. When there’s some kind of disaster, and your plane is going down, masks fall out of the ceiling. Parents are always warned to put their oxygen masks on first – THEN put the air mask on their children.

And that, I think, sums it up nicely. You need to look after yourself, so you have the strength to look after the people around you. If you’re a complete mess, chances are good your version of help is just going to make things worse.

Creative Rage

2010-06-02T07:05:00.002-04:00

I am angry. I am allowed to be angry. I don’t know what they told you, the people who raised you. They might have said anger is dangerous, or primitive, or simply unacceptable. A lot of people say shit like that nowadays. A lot of people are terrified of anger, and conflict, and aggression.

“If only we could all just get along. Imagine a world without war. Imagine a world at peace.”

Imagine a world of cowardly, bloodless robots who smile, and nod, and bow, and never say what they think or feel, for fear someone somewhere might be offended. Imagine people who always check with their neighbours before they open their mouths.

“Let’s all get along,” is code for, “Why can’t everyone just agree with me and keep their mouths shut?”

When did having your own voice become a crime? When did having aspirations become a sin? When did personal victory become “selling out”? Even the rebels seem to embrace the lowest common denominator.

“Won’t someone think of the poor? Won’t someone think of the sick, the needy? Who will look after the children? Can’t we unite, as a people, for some common cause, and improve the world for all of us?”

We get tied to the feeblest, most broken, most humble, damaged people. They drag us down with their need, their hunger, their desperation. And we call that “being good”.

Won’t someone please think of themselves? Won’t someone please resist the urge to be ooze, melting into the people around them? The crowd always becomes one – a fluid of arms, and legs, and eyes, and teeth, and patches of hair. Weak-willed people, turning into soup, agreeing on every topic, afraid of anything extreme, certain that they are good, so naturally anyone who opposes them is bad.

I will be bad! Watch me. Let me stand up and say, fuck you! Fuck you tiny little things who bleed into each other like squashed cockroaches.

Who will fight me? Who will step forward and argue me point for point, instead of merely attempting to negate me with a label?

“Bourgeois! Middle-class! Consumer!”

Denial is no argument. It’s posturing, escapism. A real argument requires revealing your own weaknesses while stabbing at the weaknesses of others. An exchange of ideas, not just mere condemnation.

“I don’t have to listen to you because you don’t think like me.”

Fuck you, then! If you answer me without hearing me, it’s not really an answer, is it?

Uniqueness! Maybe that’s the concept I’m straining to grasp. People seem so keen to wear down their pointy edges. People are so accommodating, so smooth, so polished. I would rather listen to someone with a scratchy voice that hurts my ear than hear another velvet-throated crooner belt out a love song. Give me that voice of broken glass, that sound that punctures the ear drum. Passionately realistic. Sincerely damaged, flawed, and kicking at the pretty flowers all in a row.

What am I talking about? I’m not sure. It’s there, just beyond the reach of my fingers. It has to do with anger, and heroes, and selfishness, and power, and fighting for something. Not Ayn Rand selfishness. Protecting oneself from others. Having boundaries. Saying to other people…

“No, by god! No, I will not do as you ask! I will not merely agree with you for the sake of politeness! I will fight you! I will take you down! And we both will be better people for the struggle we have with each other! For who are our friends, really? Are they the ones who agree with everything we say, or are they the ones who spar with us passionately, but still call us friends? Who does you a service, and who merely caters to your foibles?”

Too many times, people ask me for something, and I yield. Will I help them move? Will I listen to them cry over a lost boyfriend? Will I accompany them to the prom? Will I feed their goldfish? Will I comb the hair on their back? Will I lend them thousands of dollars? Will I listen to them talk for thirteen hours about a dream they once had about a fish that could talk? Will I do it? Will I?

And I’ve said yes, over and over again. Yes, I will help you. Of course. Why not? You ask for my help, and I give it, and it makes me feel special, and good, and kind, and caring. Only, eventually, I feel like a sucker who doesn’t know how to say NO. I put my life on hold, stick my desires on the back burner, and do as you wish. Over and over again.

Only now I say “NO.”

No, I won’t help you. Not today. I’m tired and I’m pissed off, and I say NO.

So you look hurt, and confused, and you say:

“But, you’re always there for me! You always help me! You always say yes! What’s going on?”

Today’s the day I don’t eat your shit. Take it someplace else. I’m not a saint. I don’t have to always eat your shit. If I say no, maybe someone else will say yes. Or, you know what? Eat your own shit for a change. Get yourself a great big silver spoon and dig into that turd and eat it yourself.

“Oh, you’re so selfish. You won’t eat my shit. Oh, you selfish bastard! You only think of yourself. That’s who you think of, night and day. Yourself.”

Oh my god, I can’t tell you how wrong that is. Do you know how much time and energy and thought I have wasted, thinking about other people and their problems? Do you know how many of your goddamn turds I have swallowed? Not just you, but the turds of everyone in my life. I just smile, pick up that silver spoon, and eat that shit. It’s when I say no, when I turn on you, that you accuse me of selfishness.

“Protect yourself,” a friend warned me recently. “That guy who wants your help? He’s needy. He will latch on to you and suck the life out of you. Protect yourself. Protect your own little family, protect your home. Put up walls. Set rules of engagement. Limit your exposure. Don’t just let him waltz into your life and take over. If you let him, that’s exactly what he’ll do.”

People need to protect themselves, their homes, their thoughts, their feelings. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that.

Oh sure, some of you filthy anarchists will disagree. What about “unconditional love”? What about the “collective”? What about the poor? Can’t we all put our lives on hold and think about someone else for a change? Why have boundaries? Why have rules? Why protect yourself?

Because if you don't protect yourself, you have no self at all. We earn our souls. It's when we draw ourselves together in one place, pile our identity up in a single pile, that we have real strength and can accomplish real things.

You pretend not to understand, you people without boundaries, when I think you do. If you don’t protect yourself, you’ll find yourself saying, “yes,” when every fibre of your being screams, “no!” You’ll be taken over by people and ideologies you disagree with. If you don’t protect yourself, any asshole who comes along can waltz into your head and start rearranging the furniture.

Be hard. Unyielding. Only let in people who have earned your trust and your respect. Doesn’t that make sense?

I know, I know. It makes you feel guilty. Me too. That’s the irony of all of this. We’re taught to be open, accommodating, peaceful, kind, considerate, cooperative, and all that. That's the lesson of Sesame Street and our parents.

"Play nice with your sister and share your toys."

But there are times when you get to keep the toys in your head. You don't always have to share your feelings. Being wide open puts you at risk.

Wouldn't it have been great, if Gordon on Sesame Street shared another lesson?

“Oh, and by the way, there are some exceptions to that cooperation stuff I was telling you about. You might want to protect your turf, too. Don’t just let any asshole have his way. You get to decide who your friends and lovers are. Don’t let people push you around. Stand up for yourself.”

We need to know that shit, and yet, at the same time, it’s so undervalued. And some of us bristle and squirm when we’re reminded of it. Somehow, it feels like a betrayal. And yet it’s quite the opposite – it’s being true to yourself.

So… be angry. Stand your ground. And if someone tells you to eat their shit, say, “NO!”

Fight. Be creatively aggressive.

***

References:

“Creative Aggression: the art of assertive living”, by George Robert Bach and Herb Goldberg, 1974.

You Are Redundant

2010-05-17T12:33:00.001-04:00

"Well, you know what I think?"

Yes. All too well. I've known you for a decade, and all you do is talk. I know exactly what you think. A large portion of my brain is wasted on a simulation of you. Whenever the question of 'what you think' comes up, I merely run that simulation. And then I have the answer.

In a sense, you are redundant. I have a copy of you in my head. What do I need you for? If I killed you, and then could adequately describe to a court of law how I have a copy of you in my head, I would be found not guilty of murder.

Instead, they would give me some sort of prize. Maybe they'd invent a new Nobel category for rendering the universe more efficient. I would humbly accept my award and donate the prize money to a new non-profit organization.

And that organization would pair people up. By lottery, I assume. All the people of the world, paired up. You and your partner would then be forced to live together and socialize for ten years. And when one person could adequately demonstrate that they can run an accurate simulation of the other, the simulated person would be humanely put to death.

The test would be something like 10 questions. If you can predict, 9 times out of 10, what your partner would say, then you win, and your partner is executed.

In this way, we could reduce the human population by half. In some cases, where people are particularly simple and predictable, we could even improve on that -- maybe reduce the population by 75%.

I think I personally could run accurate simulations of 4 or 5 people. Killing off those 4 or 5 humans would certainly reduce their drain on the environment and the world at large.

Then, if anyone wanted to talk to those people, they could just phone me.

Can I speak to John? they would ask me.

Sure, I'd answer, and then run my simulation of John. They could pretty much have a conversation as though John were still alive. It would be as if he'd never been humanely executed and ground up for fertilizer.

So, to sum up: yes, I know exactly what you think. There's no need for you to ever open your mouth again. And if you'd like to save the state the expense of an execution, you could do us all a favour and kill yourself.

I'm sorry. That was entirely inappropriate. Go ahead. Tell me what you think. I'm all ears.

Yes, I Stole "Nurse Jackie"

2010-04-30T18:11:00.002-04:00

(An open letter to CBS and their lawyers.)

Dear CBS,

My Internet Service Provider, Rogers, informs me you caught me stealing the TV show, Nurse Jackie. Sorry about that. I plead guilty – with an excuse.

I don’t own a TV. I don’t want to own a TV. I don’t want to pay for cable. I watch everything on my computer. I represent a growing number of people. Each year, more and more people realize that they don’t actually use their TV anymore. At best, they link their televisions to their computers. It’s obvious that the Internet is eventually going to replace television completely. No one thought the Internet would kill newspapers – now no one questions it. Television is destined to meet the same fate.

The easiest way for me to watch TV shows on my computer is to illegally download them. You are competing with pirates, and the pirates are winning. Why? Because they provide me a better service than you do.

I genuinely don’t want to illegally download shows. For starters, downloading torrents is slow and annoying. Secondly, I strongly believe in financially supporting creative output that I enjoy – music, movies, television shows, books, comic books, etc.

Why do the commercial TV options fail me?

Each of the various TV companies insist on having complete control of their shows. This means that they only stream their shows on their own websites. So I find myself needing to keep track of many different websites. (Which network shows CSI again? I can never remember.) This gets doubly tricky for me, because most American websites don’t stream in Canada, where I live.

In your email to me, asking me to not illegally download Nurse Jackie, you informed me I can watch complete shows on CBS.com. No, I can’t – your form letter is wrong. I’m in Canada, and all your streams are blocked to Canadians. Same goes for Hulu, Comedy Central, and many other popular streams available online in the USA. Which is extremely frustrating.

“In Canada, Comedy Central Videos are available on The Comedy Network.”

Great – so instead of seeing the 5 minute Daily Show clip embedded in an article, I now have to go to the Comedy Network, find the show that clip was taken from, and watch the entire episode? Fat chance. Instead I will just get angry and frustrated.

I actually had to go through this process recently for a Saturday Night Live skit. Someone posted a clip on YouTube. Oh, it’s gone – NBC complained about the copyright violation.

"Don’t worry," someone told me. "You can still see it on Hulu."

You know, unless you’re in Canada. I eventually found the clip buried on GlobalTV.com, after much effort.

Back to Nurse Jackie. I can’t view it on CBS.com. So where do I go? Well, who is broadcasting Nurse Jackie in Canada? I have no idea. It’s not like CBS has one single Canadian company broadcasting all of their shows. Instead, each TV show’s distribution rights are sold to many different Canadian stations. So, feeling guilty thanks to your email and wanting to do the right thing, I have to do a search.

It turns out Nurse Jackie is on The Movie Network. Great. Yet another TV company website to decipher.

Visiting TMN’s website, I quickly discovered they are only streaming the premiere episode of Nurse Jackie, season 2. Nothing else. So they are useless to me. Evidently only subscribers to the channel have access to web streaming. Wow. So it would appear there is no legal streaming source for Nurse Jackie in Canada.

As a Canadian consumer, wanting to do the right thing, now what am I supposed to do? You tell me.

Are you starting to understand why piracy is more convenient?

I have money in my hand, and I’m looking around the Internet for the product I want, and it’s just not for sale. This is a situation I find myself in regularly. I want to download a digital copy of an album, but the musician is only selling CDs. I want to pay to download a videogame, and the company insists on sending it to me in a box. I want to watch a streaming TV show, legally, and no one is streaming the show.

In all of these cases, the pirates are standing right next to me, whispering, “You want that video game? You want that music? You want that TV show? Here you go. No charge.”

Fast, convenient, easy to find. They do it better than you.

And then you catch me, and you quite rightly say that I’m doing something wrong. I know it’s wrong. I want to do the right thing. I genuinely do. But you have made it so impossible for me to do so.

Okay, sure. I could buy Nurse Jackie on iTunes -- if I want to re-watch season 1. Where's season 2? Oh, sorry. It's not for sale yet. Why not? Presumably it's because The Movie Network people are controlling assholes.

But let's say I want to watch season 1 again. I could. But do I really want to pay $4 a show for a show I’m going to watch once, then delete? Maybe. The price isn't too high. While Nurse Jackie is a great show, I don't want to watch multiple times. Why should I have to pay the same price as someone who will keep that show forever and ever, amen?

(There’s an added wrinkle to the iTunes situation. Sometimes shows playing in the United States aren’t picked up by stations in Canada. When that happens, they don’t appear on iTunes and they aren’t streamed anywhere. Would you still slap me on the wrist if I illegally downloaded a show then? Of course you would!)

Lately, I do find myself watch streaming shows on legal websites. For example, I watch a few different programs on CTV.ca and GlobalTV.com – Survivor, The Amazing Race, and others. In exchange for watching the program the legal way, I get to watch the same commercial five times. Do companies really pay for this kind of advertising? Aren’t there marketing studies which indicate that overexposure to an ad can actually be harmful, in the end?

It seems very strange to me that I get to watch a show for free, by seeing the same ad five times, for a product that I will never, ever buy. Still, it’s a small price to pay for a show streamed to me.

This is the struggle and frustration I go through to watch a show the legal way.

Just to remind you, in the case of Nurse Jackie, there is NO LEGAL WAY for me to watch season 2 on my computer. None.

Now let's compare this to the illegal alternative – the website eztv.it, for example. I’m sure you know all about that website.

I go to EZTV, and there’s a simple drop down menu that lists all the TV shows available. The listing includes shows from all the different networks across the planet. CBS, ABC, NBC, FOX, BBC, CTV, and more. I don’t have to remember 10 different websites, each with their own unique structure, each streaming their own collection of shows. I can quickly bring up Nurse Jackie and get a list of every episode of Nurse Jackie currently available. I can also see what shows were uploaded over the past few days, and thus keep track of the shows I want to watch.

“Oh look! A new episode of Nurse Jackie was just uploaded yesterday! I’ll be sure to grab that!”

Peer-to-peer downloads are slow. I have to plan my TV watching ahead. It would be much more convenient to have a site that streams shows on demand. But we already know what happens when I try to do that.

So... Where does this leave me?

I told a friend of mine about the email you sent my ISP. How I got caught stealing.

My friend said, “Dude – don’t surf the Internet without a condom on.”

And he sent me an URL to a product that would hide my ISP when I illegally download stuff.

There. Problem solved. I can illegally download shows, and you can't catch me.

But that still sucks. I genuinely want to pay. I do. Putting on this "cloak of invisibility" is just another step in the ever escalating battle between consumers and producers. If I hide, you guys will never learn.

So I find myself at a crossroad. I want to do the right thing and watch shows legally. On the other hand, the system currently in place is so inconvenient, so convoluted, so broken, it’s next to impossible for me to obey the law.

Comedian Marc Maron complained that we find ourselves “between paradigms”, and how this is a terrible place to be. Twenty years from now, all of these matters will be cleared up. Until then, we’re stuck in the mire of unresolved issues. Information wants to flow freely across borders, but the corporations are still trying to find ways to stop that flow. TV companies are still clinging to old rules, old paradigms.

CBS, you're telling me, “Don’t steal our show! Do the right thing!”

THERE IS NO WAY FOR ME TO DO THE RIGHT THING. Nurse Jackie is not being streamed anywhere in Canada. I can't buy the show on iTunes. I can't watch it on your website.

Still want to punish me?

Please, please hurry up and fix the paradigm.

Sincerely,

Nikolaus Maack

Surprised?

2010-04-21T20:36:00.001-04:00

Done at lunch today, with coloured pencil added later.

Lunchtime Watercolour Apocalypse

2010-04-16T12:45:00.001-04:00

Painted at lunch, quickly and violently, in a hidden room, under fluorescent lights.

Was still kinda wet when I snapped the pic.

Happy DUI Guy

2010-04-11T08:53:00.001-04:00

Markers and coloured pencil.

Quick and Dirty Sketch

2010-04-10T11:32:00.001-04:00

Coloured pencils and marker.

Never before seen

2010-04-09T19:03:00.001-04:00

This man is amazing.

He was riding the bus, eating ice cream, listening to music, and reading a book at the same time. And what was the book about? Attention Deficit Disorder.

He is performance art. Five stars.

Yet another mugshot sketch

2010-04-05T18:04:00.001-04:00

Tough Guy Sketch 2

2010-04-03T17:47:00.001-04:00

Watercolours and coloured pencil.

Tough Guy Mugshot Sketch

2010-04-02T09:12:00.001-04:00

Reces?

2010-04-02T08:26:00.001-04:00

Perhaps he meant to write "recess"? Some other graffiti person seems to think so. Next to "reces" is the following...

Angry Crying Woman Sketch 2

2010-04-01T17:30:00.000-04:00

Angry Crying Woman Sketch

2010-03-31T20:48:00.001-04:00

I like (some) graffiti

2010-03-28T08:46:00.001-04:00

DUI Guy

2010-03-21T19:49:00.001-04:00

Cholera

2010-03-21T13:07:00.001-04:00

Celebrate your favourite disease with a personalized license plate.

Starbucks Moment

2010-03-20T14:00:00.001-04:00

The man in the suit, sitting in the window, talks to himself. That's what makes me notice him. I can't hear what he says. He's older, with deep lines in his face. Gray hair on the sides, bald on top. He looks slumped and sad. He has a Starbucks coffee in a paper cup.

When he gets up to leave, he pick the cup up by the rim. The cardboard heat sleeve falls off the cup, landing on the floor. He doesn't notice, and walks over to the trash and throws the cup away. He heads off to the bathroom.

Someone is going to have to clean up his mess.

While he's gone, like magic, a Starbucks barrista sees the sleeve on the floor. She walks over, picks it up, and throws it in the trash.

Order is restored.

A young woman sees the table where the man once sat. It being free, she sits down in the chair. There are crumbs on the table, and she brushes them off and on to the floor.

Now there is no trace of you left, suit man.

Suit man comes back a few minutes later from the bathroom. He now has sun glasses on. He looks at the table where he was sitting once, sees the woman sitting there, and has a flash of, "But that's my table!" on his face.

Then he rememers he's leaving, that it's not his table anymore, and he goes out the door.

He leaves, and there's no visible trace that he was ever in the Starbucks at all.

I found all of it breathtakingly beautiful.

Rize Up 2012

2010-03-20T12:11:00.000-04:00

Fat Face

2010-03-19T12:33:00.000-04:00

Face (watercolour sketch)

2010-03-16T18:22:00.001-04:00

Open Email to ZeniMax Media

2010-03-15T21:22:00.003-04:00

Dear ZeniMax Media Inc,

A friend recently told me your company purchased ID Software back in June of 2009. Perhaps you can help me with the following.

Email to Id Software:
http://killeverything.blogspot.com/2009/11/my-email-to-id-software.html

Email to Activision:
http://killeverything.blogspot.com/2010/03/open-email-to-activision.html

I want to buy Doom 3. Specifically, I want to pay money, and download Doom 3 for the Mac to my computer. If you read the above emails, to which I have received no replies, you'll see that this is proving to be next to impossible. Doesn't that strike you as bizarre?

Think of it: I downloaded the demo of Doom 3, played it to completion, and found myself enthralled. I want more. The demo itself failed to provide a valid link for me to buy the game. Since then, I have been wandering the Internet like an idiot, credit card in hand, looking for someone to sell me the game.

And no one will give it to me. I suppose I could go to a mall and buy Doom 3, but I'd much rather just pay cash and download it, the same way I regularly download music, audio books, movies, and so on.

The thing is, if I wanted to download an illegal copy, I could be playing Doom 3 RIGHT NOW. The pirates are, at this moment, offering me better services that either Activision or Id Software. Doesn't this seem insane?

I'm not a particularly avid video game player. All the same, I'm surprised at how poorly organized these websites seem to be. Paying money and downloading a game immediately strikes me as a fairly basic business model. It's working for videos and music. You think makers of COMPUTER GAMES would be on board.

Where is the iTunes of the video game world?

In any event, I expect this email, like the two other emails I've written, to fall entirely on deaf ears. And that appears to be a part of the problem. As far as I can tell, someone at Id Software cleaned the website of the glaring errors I found, and did nothing else. Although I emailed Activision yesterday, I expect no reply. I am screaming into the void.

Echo! (Echo-echo-echo...)

Any sort of response would be stunningly surprising at this point.

Sincerely,

Nikolaus Maack

Open Email to Activision

2010-03-14T21:56:00.003-04:00

Dear Activision,

I was on the ID Software website, and they told me to go to Doom3.com to buy Doom 3. Entering that URL takes me to your website -- but not to any page related to Doom 3. So I searched your website for the game.

And, yes, your website lists Doom 3. When I click on the "BUY" button, I am taken to a website that says "Your search for "doom 3" did not match any products."

Which means I can't buy it.

My dream -- and I'm starting to realize it's just a dream -- is to go to a website, pay money, and download Doom 3 for the Mac. I know, I know. It's insane. I must be on drugs.

When I clicked on the "contact us" button to tell you my purchasing problem, I was taken to a menu to fill out a query. There was a drop down menu to say who I wanted to send the email to. When I selected "customer support", your website immediately took me to the customer support section, as opposed to letting me fill out the form to submit my comment. Wow. Why does it do that?

[Edit: I neglected to mention that the ONLY option on that drop down menu is "customer support". Selecting that takes you to the support page. This means the form is entirely useless.]

Somehow, after much digging around, I found this OTHER form, which (so far) appears to be allowing me to submit these words. I am skeptical the process will actually work.

It may amuse you to know that I originally went to the ID Software website, looking to buy Doom 3 there, and experienced a nightmare of confusion on their site too.

I sent them this email...
http://killeverything.blogspot.com/2009/11/my-email-to-id-software.html

...and never received a reply. That email was sent in November of 2009. Don't ask me why I'm trying to buy Doom 3 again. Maybe I'm just a masochist, and enjoy poorly designed websites.

Thank you for your time. Feel free to contact me by email, or phone -- [phone number deleted].

Nik