Not Okay

I recently attended a midnight showing of an old release playing at a cinema close to my home. Prior to the screening, we were entreated to a rather agonizing series of attempted comedy acts of the stand-up variety for reasons entirely unknown by me. Better yet, when the film commenced there were technical difficulties, leaving us with no audio, and while the problem was being attended to, the more horrid of the acts saw fit to further subject us, her vastly disinterested audience, to her endless- okay, like, 40 seemingly endless minutes of monologuing. More intoxicated members of the audience were inspired to toss their hats into the rings, shouting and repeating whatever obnoxious clichés seemed to be winning snickers from other audience members. The comedienne poorly bantered with them in a game of obvious responses to expected reactions. But that’s not my complaint. That was all dreadful enough to be entertaining on the most basic levels. Like, “Really? Is this really happening?”

No, my complaint lies with the comic who performed immediately before the audio SNAFU. His routine was largely uncomfortable as it was, a compilation of oft-recycled jokes found on every other website, and he was constantly losing his place mid-joke. Painful, but hardly a reason to fault a individual. But then he went and closed his act with a visual gag of sorts. I’ll try and quote him as precisely as I can.

“Before I get off the stage here,” he said, reaching for the duffel bag he’d hauled on-stage with him, “I hope you all enjoy the movie! I’ll be watching too, with my brother who I brought here with me today. We got here by Greyhound today.”

He then proceeded to zip open the duffel bag and pull out a fake, bloodied, severed head, holding it out to us. He barked a laugh, utterly pleased with his clever joke.

To my immense surprise, many in the audience laughed. Several clapped and cheered. The comedian skipped off the stage, clutching both the head and bag.

I couldn’t even breathe, actually went dizzy with shock, biting back a very real and sudden urge to cry, rapidly re-living all the released details of the case. I’ve never been a boo-er by nature, but if I hadn’t been rendered speechless by the tastelessness of it all, I suspect that would have been just the situation that could induce me to react in such a way.

I felt sick, completely disgusted. I didn’t get why it was supposedly funny. Purely for relevancy's sake? It’s on all of our minds, after all. Is it funny because he dared to offend? Dared to trample over and far beyond “the line”? Would he have thought it so entertaining had he been closely acquainted? What about the cackling audience members? Do they detach, opt to find only hilarity in the situation so that no pain need be felt?

In the days following the tragic death of Tim McLean, I’ve heard more than a few Greyhound-related jokes, but none that treated the brutal killing with such irreverence, none that made the gruesome act seem casual, nearly inconsequential. I’m not in the least an advocate for absolute seriousness. Humour is the ultimate essential for making sense of...well, life, death, and everything. Humour is the most perfect means of coping, of weighing our values and feelings and approaching things from an angle that won’t lead to a state of constant mourning for all the sufferings life brings. Humour is ideal for magnifying the lessons learned during the tutorials of life that do happen to employ elements of the macabre and morbid. I’ve laughed my way through nearly every problem and/or loss I’ve personally come up against, so I really don’t think I’m deficient in my ability to not take life too seriously. Am I being overly sensitive, still now feeling a dull rage that he had the gall to make light of something so deeply unsettling?

The joke and the laughs it drew reek of outright cruelty and a disconnect from humanity. I don’t even think I need to justify all the ways it was wrong, all the ways it was completely inappropriate.

It makes me sad, but I do find some solace in the collective horror.

Golden on Granville

Today I was standing at the Granville/Broadway intersection, awaiting a bus and minding my own blissful business entirely. Events of a traumatic nature tend to visit me completely unannounced, so perhaps I should have taken the lack of ominous foreshadowing as...well, foreshadowing of some sort. Alas, my guard was down. I was having a glorious day, there was clearly no reason to be on disaster watch.

Quite abruptly a homeless man materialized in front of me, his face mere inches from my own, spittle shooting from his bottom lip onto my chin as he sputtered something. I couldn’t hear him, being enslaved to my iPod and all. I normally take pride in reacting to such things in a calm, cool, and collected manner, but the seemingly instantaneous nature of his arrival, combined with 3 parts violent spittle, 2 parts crazy yellowed eyeballs, with a dash of every odour one could imagine from a street person, and I found myself rapidly stutter-stepping away from him in the most awkward fashion I could muster.

Due to an earlier incident involving plummeting lumber, I’m sadly afflicted with numerous cuts and gashes on my feet and during my escape from L’Hobo, I aggravated one of the more gruesome gashes on my left foot. When it seemed he’d lost interest in me, I resumed my careless music listening and kicked the sandal off my ailing foot, hoping to let it breathe and to not get gross gash juices (worst thing I’ve ever said; apologies to all) on the brand new sandals that I’d pilfered from Lauren.

Though it shouldn’t have been, it was quite the surprise when L’Hobo appeared in front of me once again. This time cradling what I thought to be a dead rat in his hand, his face still precariously close to my own, his eyes positively swimming with fury. I reached up to remove my headphones- cursing myself for my lack of audio awareness- and time seemed to slow as I came to several realizations. Firstly, that dead rat he was cradling near his belt was in fact none other than 100% Hobo Penis- a species of penis I wish I didn’t encounter nearly so frequently as I seem to. I could settle for zero more Hobo Penis sightings and I would be more than perfectly content with life. Oh and the second revelation? Someone was now urinating on my freely exposed foot.

I jumped back, shocked, horrified, contemplating ending it all, etc, etc. L’Hobo maintained emptying his bladder all over the sidewalk. I stood there, a river of urine separating me from Lauren’s sandal. Everyone pretended not to notice, pretended not to stare, pretended not to be thanking every deity imaginable that they were not me at that precise moment, that they weren`t in my singular sandal. A good samaritan next to me mumbled that he was going to head into Starbucks and fetch me some napkins. L’Hobo finished his task and quite expectantly got up in my face again.

“Change?” He growled.
“I-what-are-I...what the-” was my disbelieving reply.
“You fucking SHITHEAD!” He spat at me, before rapidly taking off down the street. My hero brought me napkins while I fetched Lauren’s thankfully untarnished sandal. I then spent a good 10 minutes washing my foot in the Starbucks’ rest room, using several palm-fulls of antibacterial soap. Then I went to Future Shop and bought a 4-pack of Pacino DVD’s because I DESERVE SOME HAPPINESS, OKAY?

I barely understand what happened. It. Was. Terrrible. I got pissed on. By a Hobo. IN AN OPEN WOUND. I feel like he's part of me now and I'm going to start transforming any horrifying second. Some may have seen fit to report such an occurrence, but I’m not a huge fan of filing official reports about vanishing Hobos pissing on me. Apparently proclaiming such a thing on Facebook is fine though? I don’t understand my own coping mechanisms. I wish I could say the whole debacle was the worst part of my day. But it wasn’t. Far from it, in fact. But we needn’t discuss that.

Oh my God. A Hobo peed on me? I hate. Hate.

Samplings

Click Goes the Phone

Six months prior, intoxicated with a fresh wave of enthusiastic confidence, with nearly an air of non-chalance, I pledged I'd pursue the goal we all took upon ourselves. Not so cocky as to deem it a probability, I saw it a very real possibility, and a prize to keep me focused. The months passed, my confidence eroded, and I lost sight of my objective, felt shame in having ever professed I'd pursue it.

Now, much to my shock, my prior objective has been met, despite applying little effort and zero hope. In the meantime my peers had remained steadfast in their paths, yet most fell short. It really just isn't fair.

Time to chase it down like I believe I deserve it. Because I do.

Coming to a Close...

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes."
- Carl Gustav Jung

Blink of an eye, the end nears and the beginning approaches.

Down is the New Up

Initially distracted by the horror awaiting me in the kitchen, I failed to notice the true evil that was taking place at that very moment. I’d returned home from an arduous day of classes, intending to collapse on the couch, cold beer in hand. En route to the couch, I tried to pretend I was oblivious to the sea of garbage spread over the kitchen floor, tried to have it remain in my peripheral vision, out of my direct line of sight. Helplessly, I found my head turn toward the atrocity, thus forcing me to acknowledge both the calamity and my responsibility for it. I trudged toward the kitchen, taking great care to step over the sprawled-out culprit responsible for the mess: Sparrow, my 9 month-old cat. She tends to embark on Raccoony type expeditions, frequently pillaging our covered garbage can for anything she deems edible, which is pretty much anything we would deem garbage.

I began gathering up the mess, mumbling to myself corporal punishments I would never actually inflict upon my beloved Sparrow, but desperately needed to envision so as not to resent her forever. While I slaved away, cleaning up her mess, Sparrow remained on the floor in the spot I’d stepped over her, meowing relentlessly. I paid her no mind. The meowing persisted. Gradually, it became a yowl, and a somewhat desperate one at that. I could ignore her no longer. She lay curled on the floor, sporadically kicking her feet out. I stepped closer. The stench hit me. Nervously, I edged even closer to have my fears confirmed. There’s no mistaking the scent of cat feces.

Nearly the entire lower half of Sparrow’s body was caked in damp excrement. I stutter-stepped backward, contemplating fleeing the scene at the very least, and perhaps even skipping town. Sparrow flopped over onto her feet and jumped up off the hardwood floor onto the step of our second storey stairwell. Our carpeted stairwell. At this point I’d pretty much given up on life, as she rubbed her body on the bottom step, depositing stains. Apparently that step wasn’t sufficient to sate her, for she leapt up to the next step, repeating the ritual. Quite understandably, I screamed. This did nothing to alert her and she rolled onto her back, yowling loudly, and prominently displaying what may possibly be the most unholy vision I’ve ever fallen victim to. It became apparent my attempts to will myself into a coma were going nowhere, so I finally leaped into action. Gagging, I scooped Sparrow off her sixth freshly tainted step and sprinted for the bathroom, desperately trying to ignore her body pressed against mine.

Once in the bathroom, she sat miserably on the floor, grumbling, twisting her body against the cold tiles, wiping off whatever she could. Once again she rolled over on her back. There was no denying that...it wasn’t all out. There was some sort of blockage (I could tell you what it was if you really must know) and progress was being halted so she panicked and abandoned the whole notion of the litter box and took the show to the hardwood floor. That’s when I fatefully entered the scene. Forcing back yet another gag, I reached for a long strip of toilet paper, wrapping it around my most dexterous finger. I will spare you the more gruesome details, I promise. Just know that it was at least twice as awful as you imagine and involved 730% more probing than I am comfortable with. Speaking on Sparrow’s behalf, I’d gamble a guess at a slightly higher percentage.

I then gently wrestled a displeased Sparrow into the bathtub, blocking all escape routes. She put up a fight most ardent the moment the faucet was turned on. I deftly avoided her tenacious claws, fearing any and all blood-borne infections from fecal matter. At the battle’s height, she managed a feat of epic strength and tore up a segment of the metal basing, forcing me to release her if I wished to prevent the heavy shower doors from collapsing onto the both of us. She nimbly darted out of the tub, ferociously shaking torrents of shit water from her coat. All over. Yes, including me. I considered crying and/or a temper tantrum, but instead resumed the battle, dragging her back to the tub. After a few minutes of soothing voice work and comforting petting, she allowed me to wash her entire body. The fact that she found the soap I was using to be tasty may have also factored into her compliance, for she hungrily lapped away at it. I pray that has no negative effects on her digestive tract because I can’t go a round two for at least another year.

Drenched, but completely clean, Sparrow lovingly followed behind me for the next half hour as I scoured the bathroom, scrubbed the carpet and hardwood clean, and finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. I then spent a solid hour taking a shower of my own, after which Sparrow curled up on my lap for a nap. She was perhaps a little mopey, but I like to think mostly grateful. All the carnage was efficiently dealt with before my roomies returned home- something I hope they are appropriately thankful for.

I submit this account into evidence that I will obviously someday be a fantastic mother, thankyouverymuch.

Mastering the Art of Self-Sabotage

I can't decide if I really need to say much more on the subject. So long as I'm willingly inducing myself to fail, I needn't feel the sting of failing by accident. Common knowledge, but something I needed to affirm for myself regardless.

Mayhaps it's time to abandon the ol' self-detriment, hmmmmmmmm?