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.

I’ve been watching a little more television. Mostly at work but a bit at home too. This means one or two hours a day as opposed to the previous amount of zero hours daily, which was the typical amount during the hectic past few months. I can’t deal with the commercials. I really can’t. I actually believe that there are some good things on TV but the vapid mindfucks that interrupt shows every 5 minutes ruin everything. Absurd, soulless drivel. You can step back and look at them objectively to recognize the meticulous planning that went into every little nuanced image and sound. All designed to force their brand through your synapses, to carve that fucking logo right though your brain. But they do it sweetly, cutely, with pop music, slick morphing images, comedy, big stunts and booms. It’s impossible to look at this shit objectively all the time. It just takes too much mental energy. You tune it out and it permeates in. Fuck I can’t stand it. This is where all our artists end up. Advertising bitches. God fucking damnit.

So I turn to music. Or audio books. I’ve become pretty good at focusing during the constant flow of speech of an audio book. It takes some discipline to stay with the narration and not drift off on your own tangents. Maybe this is why I’m finding the fragmented broadcast of television so abhorrent lately. Unfortunately, focusing is something I’m fairly incapable of doing in actual university lectures. I suppose it was the material. Stepping through algorithms and Turing machine proofs isn’t very enthralling.

Anyway, I’m almost done my audio book lecture series on classical mythology. I already know I want more. More detail, more depth. I listened to lectures on Heracules/Hercules and the Trojan war today. I really enjoyed it. Greek myth is full of excellent, funny, ironic and extremely entertaining stories. The old Hercules cartoon I used to watch on weekend mornings left out all the good stuff. I don’t remember the episode where he killed his children in a rage. Or the one where he slept with fifty women in one night. Was that in the Disney version? Cause I haven’t seen that yet. The Minotaur and the Labyrinth are a frequently borrowed theme too. Although all the contemporary versions I’ve seen leave out the part where Aphrodite infects Queen Pasiphae with sexual desire for the king’s prized bull which leads to the Minotaur’s conception.

So, now that I actually have a little free time, I’ll probably be setting up instant messaging later today. I’m going to use Trillian which integrates AIM, MSN, ICQ and other clients too, so if you want to be added, send me an email (there’s a link on the side of this page) with the info I need. I have a pre-existing MSN account but only two of my five contacts actually ever message me.

I just had a much needed week of fun and hedonism with a clingy succubus at my side. I let go and enjoyed it. We spent a lot of time downtown. I used some of my useless knowledge of indie music to win some free CD’s. Listened to live music. Hot Hot Heat. Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. Cover bands. Memory loss from alcohol. Mini putt. Comic books. Awkward coffee shop trio with past and current girlfriend. Labatt brewery tour. Theater movies. Video Games. Sex. Cookies. Sugar Mountain Candy. Cats. Galleries. Fish. Trois Pistoles. Blanche de Chambly. Barakat. Hmm. So it was good. A vacation that purged accumulated stress, restlessness and insecurities.

The problem with these weekly rendezvous’ I have with Merle is that she can be perfect for a week. I really did have fun with her. Her cheeriness and excitement is infectious. I was showered with ego inflating compliments all week long. She did many niceties and unasked favours. She has a very large libido that at least matches mine, and the longer I stay with her, the more I become convinced that sex will never get boring between us. I enjoy her possessiveness and jealousy when it doesn’t cross a dangerous threshold. I catch myself thinking, “Who are you trying to fool? Yes, ok, she may have some bizarre quirks and mentally instabilities but she’s your perfect compliment. If you leave her, do you think you’ll ever find a woman who worships you like this again? What the hell is wrong with you?”

…And then the neurons containing a strong memory from when we were living together activate. The memory where I thought to myself, “I promise that no matter what happens, I will not marry this girl. She will make life unbearable. Miserable. Don’t ever forget this. Living with her is absolute hell. Never move in with her again. Not all women are like this. At least I hope not.” So after I have a good week with her, I wonder which set of promises will be broken, the ones I made with myself or with her.

We met, or hooked up, or whatever in a coed residence. We were on the same floor. Floor incest. The next year we lived with another couple in a rented house. It was the worst living arrangement I’ve ever experienced. Merle is a neat freak and an explosive personality. The other male was very messy and …. ahh never mind. It was unpleasant. A tale for another day. The next two years we lived together in an on-campus apartment exclusively. After we parted ways, her to go to teacher’s college in the states, I into a second undergrad program, we had to pay over $600 damages on the apartment. Damages that mostly resulted from the unfortunate trait I inherited from my Italian grandfather of punching walls in extreme frustration. Our posters were strategically placed. I do have a deep well of patience and it is exceedingly difficult to make me very angry. But I know that when I am provoked, it is possible to ignite a dark, intense rage that first smolders and then explodes. I envision my eyes going red, my teeth gritting and whole body tensing. Oddly enough, I grin a demonic smile too. It is in these moments that I scare myself and Merle. I know I’m incapable of hurting her though. A strong mother and good father made sure this moral was firmly embedded into my core (my grandfather apparently didn’t have this and is now divorced from my grandmother and is somewhat of a black sheep.). Anyway, my point was not to reveal a fatal character flaw but that Merle has an uncanny ability to ignore the overt warning signs I emit to totally frustrate and infuriate me regularly. In these moments, my internal censor that weighs consequences dies. I am viciously honest and brutal which deeply hurts Merle. Typically, she then cries for an indeterminate amount of time, which will elicit my affection once my rage dies. She will then pretend all I said was untrue, everything gets all better and the cycle is primed to continue.

It usually takes longer than a week together though.

It was a busy week and I had a good time. I let all obligations melt away and lived as a hedonist.

For the first time ever I think I’ve experienced memory loss from drinking. And it took a relatively small amount of alcohol. Apparently I now have virtually no tolerance.

Merle left today. I’m now left to my own dangerous devices. Dangerous as in lazy.

I’m not digging this post. I have an abundance of topics I could write on but nothing profound and wise. And that’s what I desire right now.