Sorry Mr. White, I opened my Christmas presents early again. Your new album is great though, raw, rhythmic and fun. Some of the songs remind me of the stranger material Paul McCartney did on Abbey Road and Let It Be.

Coming off a nightshift. It’s after 3am. Insomnia. Polka dot pants and a bright red Kansas City Chief t-shirt. Trying to break out of a bad funk with some of the good kind. I want some coffee. But its too late. I still don’t know if I’m graduating in 28 days or not. blah blah blah.

Caffeine withdrawal headache. A dull little ache that starts at the back of my eye, travels an inch back and extends two more inches upwards. A neural triangle of annoyance. Insomnia. Insomnia. No sleeping pill tonight cause at 7am I have to walk to work for an all-staff meeting. One of the guards is unhappy with the new schedule. I think he might have a proposal that cuts my hours since it’s no secret I’m leaving in a couple months. Maybe I’ll just have a mega huge coffee before bed. The old caffeine nap trick. That’ll solve my headache and as a bonus, the caffeine and lack of sleep will ensure I’ll be easily agitated for the meeting. “I’m out of order? NO, YOU’RE OUT OF ORDER!” I hope we’re all around a table, so I can bang it with my fist for emphasis.

A trillion things to do and be done to me tomorrow. I’m off this week-end. (That sounds way more exciting than reality.)

Living alone is something I recommend every person does at least once in life for self-discovery purposes. I’m starting to sour on it now though. Uncertainty in various aspects of my near future weigh heavy. If I knew I was staying in London past August, I think I’d find a roommate. Right now, I’m Merle’s little bird in an expensive single bedroom cage.

“This sounds like a job for Bi-Polar Bear! …but I just can’t seem to get out of bed this month.”

Felt pretty spiffy tonight. I talked to a very old friend for the first time in a few months and had a meaningful conversation, not just crummy chit chat. Went for a most excellent run (fastest time yet, maybe ever!) and I surrendered to a fierce Stone Temple Pilot craving.

STP’s probably my favorite band. They may not have been as innovative as Nirvana or Pearl Jam but I like their sound better. And that’s all that really matters. Between 1993 and 98 is when my interest in music exploded. My first purchase was NIN – Broken because I had seen my black lipstick, knee high boot wearing crush with a copy at school. After I started to listen to campus radio, my perspectives and tastes broadened. They have shows featuring a lot of indie rock, world music, country, 80s independent, funk, punk, underground rap, electronica, dance techno, retro, hip hop, soul, blues and more! Still grunge was my first love and STP is my special sweetheart. Scott Weiland’s sweet, deep, coked-out voice is perfect. The songs are so smooth and rich, not irritatingly catchy or rushed. Excellent stuff.

So after that I was in the mood for, and listened to, The Crow soundtrack on the walk to work. And then I had a naked sauna in the men’s locker room at midnight. While I was in there, sweating a ton, slathering the place with my DNA, I realized I forgot to stretch after my run so I did it all sweaty naked in there. Then I had a cool shower and had no towel so I had to creatively shake off all the water afterwards. Heeheehee.

Rundown. Tired. Washed out. It rained all day. During my walk to work it was thunder storming. Given my crummy mood, I didn’t mind, it was cathartic. I feel better when it rains on work nights. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on life as much.

While I walked to work through the storm, I listened to a lecture on Brahmin Hinduism, something I had previously enjoyed learning about in a World Religions course. I like to envision Brahmin as the giant bulbous, writhing mass of flesh that Tetsuo morphs into at the end of Akira. Except it’s yellow. And we’re all illusionary projections of tentacles.

So I was grappling with how cause and effect relationships work when Brahmin is everything and all objects are Brahmin, when a giant spidering lightning bolt flashed lengthwise overhead and lit up the night sky. At this point, focusing on the lecture became an impossibility. I put on some punk music and recalled in vivid detail the following five moments in which I was either inside an object struck by lightning or right beside it:

(1) 13 years old. On route to a family cabin in Northern Saskatchewan, riding in the back of a 1979 green Cadillac as my grandfather drove through the prairies. The landscape was flat and the car was hit.

(2) 17 years old. In a Fat Cats pool hall playing eight ball with a good friend. An extremely loud reverberating crack shook the place as the power went out. I was amazed that lightning or electricity could make that sound. It was like a god dropped his giant wooden mallet right on the roof. Really violent. If you are in a place that is struck by lightning, there is no mistaking it. You just know. The waitress brought us candles to play by after the strike. Fun.

(3) 17 years old still. At home, making a sandwich in the kitchen by the window, getting wet from the rain blowing in. The branches of our giant cedar tree were smacking into the screen window cover. I was watching this as lightning struck the tree less than 10 meters away and left scorch marks in my vision for days. The tree splintered violently and was subsequently cut down.

(4) 18 years old. Inside the clubhouse at Chapples golf course. Same deal as Fat Cats.

(5) 21 years old. Third and top floor apartment of Beaver Hall. Sleeping with Mango and Merle at around 4am. I was so disoriented after the strike that I actually pushed Merle out of bed and told her to stay away from the wall because I thought the ten story building (Bayfield Hall) across the road was collapsing down upon us. Poor Mango hid under my cushy chair and crawled up inside of it as the power went out and emergency alarms stared blaring.

So on the walk, I was genuinely concerned. I thought my iPod Luna may have been malfunctioning due to the electricity of the storm. The volume kept oscillating high to low and low to high even though the hold switch was flipped. Also the street I walk down is lined with giant oak trees and the lightning seemed very close.

Yada yada yada I made it to work ok but soaking wet. I dried off in the exercise room, sitting on a gigantic purple ball, watching my all-time favorite Futurama episode, Parasites Lost. The End.

It’s thunderstorming. An enjoyable experience because I’m on campus, typing right next to large floor to ceiling windows. A perfect view of the storm and scurrying students. I feel better when it rains on work nights. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on life as much.

Things of mine keep breaking. The latest was my pc soundcard. Just another setback amongst many. I’m really batting 1.000 lately. I’m trying to stay optimistic but it’s becoming difficult.

I don’t even really like this song. It’s just the best title on the album. Fitting springtime rain music I suppose.

2025 me here: Did I just forget to mention the song I referenced?

Today was a total fiasco that I’m not in the mood to rehash here. However, I experienced some redemption and relief tonight. Now I feel much better. I’ll probably have insomnia again though.

You know, weightlifting is a boring pain in the ass, but I really love running. And I had a fantastic run tonight. It was my fifth of the summer and the fastest time by 72 seconds. I knew it was going to be a good one cause I felt great and was looking forward to it. It was the perfect time and temperature, 10:30pm and 8 degrees Celsius. Dark and cool, baby. Just like me. I was bursting with energy from my dinner of Red Snapper, perogies and broccoli. Yum yum. For music, I listened to the best of 1992, a fine vintage of musical pop.

Music has such a huge effect on how well I run. When a good song comes on, I relax, my stride lengthens, endorphins release chemical ecstasy and I push hard and strong. It doesn’t have to be a really fast song either; I just have to feel it. It can be a little slower as long as it’s melodic with a great beat. Tonight my favorite was Wreckx ‘n’ Effect – Rump Shaker.

When I got home to take off my stylin’ two-hue, black and silver running outfit and appropriately coordinated shoes, I noticed that the white strip that runs along the bottom of each shoe was all bloody on the heel. Then I noticed my calves were bleeding profusely from about halfway up. An odd occurrence since I felt no pain as I ran. I guess my stride needs some work. Or some new shoes. Now that I’ve got my flanks washed and cleaned, there are two little hairless red spots standing out from my otherwise hairy legs. They’re like little bizzare tattoos. Oh well.

For the authentic Ancient Undergrad 1992 workout these are the tracks you need. The amount of time and extraordinary effort that went into painstakingly selecting these tracks is embarrassing. (I’ve done it right from 1976 to 2002.):

Sir Mix A Lot – Baby Got Back
Kris Kross – Jump
Wreckx ‘n’ Effect – Rump Shaker
En Vogue – My Lovin’
House Of Pain – Jump Around
Right Said Fred – I’m Too Sexy
Cece Peniston – Finally
Kws – Please Don’t Go
Technotronic – Move This
Shakespeare’s Sister – Stay
U2 – Mysterious Ways
Red Hot Chilli Peppers – Under The Bridge
Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit
The Cure – Friday I’m In Love

Took an extra strength sleeping pill to trick my system into shifting to daylight normalcy tomorrow. Let’s see if I can write something half decent before my head lolls onto my shoulder, mouth agape. I already feel heavy eye lids and dizziness. The power of placebo! I doubt my body is assimilating it already.

Why don’t I like Rescue Rangers? Well, before my VHS horror movie phase, I used to always run to the Disney section of Village Video to pick out one of the compilation videos made up of old toons, mostly from the 50’s. Donald Duck, Goofy, Chip ‘n Dale, maybe Mickey Mouse. The old Goofy toons are great but I think Donald Duck was my favorite. Specifically, the one where he is playing hockey with his nephews on the outdoor pond. Or the one where he is trying to steal honey from a big honey bee nest that’s like a medieval castle. Yeah. That one’s the best. Still some of those Donald Duck cartoons with Chip n’ Dale were superb too. Dale was the stupid one, but Chip wasn’t all that bright either. He was kind of sadistic in his revenge towards Donald though. I don’t think I liked that.

Anyway, I liked Chip n’ Dale much better when all they were worrying about was collecting nuts and guarding their tree. When Disney made it into an after school adventure sitcom, they lost all credibility with me. Even though I was only eleven or so, I knew they were selling out. They dressed Chip as an Indiana Jones clone and put him in charge. They gave Dale this gaudy, red Hawaiian shirt and a mentality that was ripped right from Weekend at Bernie’s. Then they throw in fat Australian chipmunk stereotype, “Monty”, and Gadget, a female know-it-all chipmunk with a voice that could pierce metal. And then there was that green bug mascot who I hated most of all. Fuck, I wanted him to die.

So, yeah, it was lame. Not funny at all. Boring. If I wanted to see that type of show, Inspector Gadget did it much better. Also, I don’t like how Chip n’ Dale moved from their forest wildlife habitat and into the city. It’s a shift away from ecological wisdom and movement into urban dystopia. Out of the Disney half hour shows, Gummi Bears was my favorite. There were all kinds of darker themes lurking just beneath the surface.

Look, no genitalia!

So warm and sunny today. Walked to work and now I’m all gross and sticky underneath my suit. (I change here) Bleah. I want coffee but don’t want anything hot. My only option here is instant sludge. Iced cappuccino would be yummy. Coffee coffee coffee coffee. Hazelnut cream coffee with lots of sugar and cream and ice cubes would be sublime. I saw a chipmunk on my walk home this morning. Back home, chipmunks are common and squirrels are rare. Around here, the reverse is true. Reverse? Or inverse? I was going to write that the relationship is inversely proportional but thought that sounded too nerdy. But anyway, yeah, that was my big thrill of the day. The chipmunk reminded me of home. And Donald Duck cartoons. Not Rescue Rangers though. I always hated that show.

In my last post I was complaining about having too much free time. What’s wrong with me? There are wars on. Global poverty, disease and starvation are widespread epidemics. The environment is going to shit. And all I’ve got is boredom. Stress over which city to start my decadent middle class life in. Worry over how my body looks. Self-improvement is masturbation. There’s a little Pahalniuk gem. Well, if it’s masturbation then why am I so sore? Wait. That’s not a contradiction.

My work schedule is changing. The new upcoming schedule is brutal but also offers intriguing possibilities. Every third week I’m going to get a four day week-end. As it is now, I never get a week-end off, just Tuesday to Thursday. I have no clue how to even handle a week-end anymore. Does anyone know where the local sock hop or ice cream social is? Four days means I’m not strictly tied to London anymore either. I’ll have to think about this.

The plant called and said if you don’t come in tomorrow, don’t bother coming in Monday. Woohoo! Four Day Week-end!

Mr. Yao is cramping my style. This gentleman is a fifty-something Chinese investment broker who likes to visit during my nightshifts. This is problematic because it cuts into valuable sauna and nap time.

I’ve known him for the few years I’ve worked here and I suppose we’re friends. He owns a condo here that he uses as his office. His secretary lives there in an unorthodox arrangement that seems sexually peculiar. Like many in my monkeysphere, Mr. Yao is an eccentric character. He has slyly tipped me off to the fact that he’s a millionaire, yet he still unabashedly roots around in the lobby wastebasket for Subway 2-for-1 coupons. On the weekend he often brings in two girls with him that are younger than I, all gussied up in hootchie gear. He is married with kids but apparently is a week-end sugar daddy also.

For some reason, he loves me. The other guards have confirmed this, apparently I’m his favorite topic of discussion. He generally comes in early at 4am or so to check the Asian markets before the day begins. Often, he’ll reek of weed and engage me in lengthy conversations. I think he likes to bounce investment strategy off of me, because he’ll talk about companies, political movements or whatever is topical in the news. I don’t know if it’s just because he’s stoned, or if I’m just so delightful to talk to, but he’ll sometimes stay for hours chatting me up. He likes to break the ice by bringing newspaper clippings of random topics that he thinks I’ll find interesting.

Currently he is bugging me to install games on his laptop. He keeps buying these cheap bargain bin PC games but he doesn’t know how to install them. So he accumulates a bunch of them, and then brings them to me with his laptop. He pays me and brings me goodies and stuff so I suppose it’s not that bad.

At my workplace most of the residents are elderly. It’s a building of upscale condos, an attractive looking place with many amenities. The small staff, including myself, was hired from a security company. Each guard has a second interview with the condo manager to weed out the unsavory characters. They want comely, well-spoken, young men to dress up in suits and function not only as guards but as general all-round slaves. We help with luggage, call cabs, schedule parties and deal with the catering staff, set up for moves and deliveries etc. There are lots of little duties and procedures to do and follow. Since most people are elderly we occasionally deal with death too.

Last month a gentleman died at a local hospital of cerebral bleeding after he slipped outside on some ice. (Snowfall was very heavy this year in London and I believe the city exhausted their snow removal budget in January. As a result, sidewalk conditions were awful for the last half of winter.) This man previously had a stroke and couldn’t speak anymore. Still, every morning at 7a.m. or so, he went for a morning walk. The front doors are very heavy. However this older gentleman would walk with a determined, fast stride and push those doors open effortlessly. If I only had one word to describe him it would be strong. I recently found out he was 85. I was very surprised and awed to know that he was in such good shape at that advanced age.

Anyway, this past week end, I talked to his widow for the first time since his death. I told her of how I perceived him and she told me that he had regarded his stroke as more of a challenge than a debilitation. That he had incredible moral strength as well as physical. At the time, she was mailing responses to condolence letters from across Canada regarding his death. He was the father of a very recognizable Canadian celebrity and had a full page obituary in the Globe and Mail, a national newspaper. He was the recipient of the full page on his own merit though.

I expressed genuine concern and interest to the widow, so she went to her condo and brought me a photocopy of the obituary article. He had been flown in the RAF during World War II as a Flight Lieutenant and Wing Commander. He had received the Distinguished Flying Cross from King George and had survived over fifty bombing missions. The article outlined his remarkable life in and after the war which I thought it was incredibly inspiring. Much more so since I had known and seen his strength and courage in person, unmistakable and impossible to miss even in his mid-eighties and after a serious stroke. A brave man from a brave generation, who had calm and determination that probably resulted from being under the most dangerous conditions for such a long time. I hope I can carry myself that well.