nicotine and gravy

we're sitting in a busy yet quiet restaurant.
maybe it's the tail end of the Thursday afternoon lunch rush.
we talk. we laugh. we plan stupid little things that we probably won't end up doing but we get excitied about them anyway.
and you will never understand how hard it is for me.
to sit here facing you like this.
lying to you like this.
the illusion of contentment.
every time we dine out it gets harder and harder.
it is eating me alive.
you have no idea.
how badly.
i want to.
start a food fight.
sure it seems like we're casually chatting about The Office or global warming or how you never see pinball machines anymore.
i am talking about these things but i am not thinking about them.
i am planning.
i am planning the most elaborate and desperate food fight this prissy little bistro has ever seen.
when i am glancing around the room, know that i am strategizing trajectories, trying to ascertain the feasibility of launching off that chair and sliding across that table while flinging shrimp pasta at those who dared to sit in the lovely seats against the west wall, near the terrace.
"how come you never wear nice clothes when we go out to eat?"
because i'm dressing for maneuverability.
i want so bad to start this.
to birth this public orgasm of inappropriate behaviour.
it's been haunting me since we walked through the door.
menu as battle roster.
i didn't order the special because i'm hungry for the special.
i ordered the special because i know the special would be an efficient long-range ballistic.
the side dish will be used to blind and confuse the nearest server, allowing me to launch your california salad just over her shoulder and into the reserved seats.
this should buy me enough time to make a mad dash to the kitchen.
(oh sweet jesus the ammo in that kitchen.)
i am seeing this and i am feeling this and it's only seconds away and i'm so ready and my hands are shaking and i think i have an erection.
i down the rest of my wine.
(to calm myself? or to steady my nerves for battle?)
and for a second i think "i'm ok. let's just have a nice meal. i barely even know you."
but when i look down at that poutine in front of me i know it's a lie.
and i dig my hands in, double fisting, veins of gravy crawling down my wrists as i raise my weapons from thier bowl.
as i slowly and stealthily rise to stand on my chair i look you in the eyes and say "i'm sorry."
this is also a lie.
join me.
i will win.

drink club

The first rule of drink club is you do not remember drink club.
The 2nd rule of drink club is you DO NOT remember drink club.
The 3rd rule, if someone says stop, goes limp, passes out, the drinking is over (for him, because he's a pussy).
The 4th rule is, drinking will go on as long as it has to.
And the 5th and final rule, if this is your first night at drink club, you have to drink.

birthsauce

today is the twenty-sixth anniversary of the day of my birth.
let's see who else was born today.

Plato - the Greek philosopher
the American Red Cross - humanitarian organization
Al Franken - the semi-popular comedian
Mr. T - Mister fucking T
Judge Reinhold - you saw Beverly Hills Cop
Jeffery Dahmer - American serial killer/cannibal
Notorious B.I.G. - popular slain hip-hopper
Briana Banks - award winning adult film star
Belladonna - slightly skankier award winning adult film star

also, the exact day of my birth was the opening night of Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.
the Number One song in America that day was "Call Me" by Blondie.
and i hear that Mount St. Helens was also pretty popular that day.
and May 21, 2000 was the first day that i was able polish off an entire quart of Jagermeister by myself.

i'm old now.
i'm going back to bed.

electric summer

i'm a sucker for a meaty guitar riff.
not all guitar riffs mind you, because there are a lot fools and heathens out there peddling half-assed, masturbatory string wankery as meaty riffage, so tread carefully and go with your gut.
it's best to ask yourself A) is this riff being played with passion and conviction? and B) does this riff have that special something that you can't quite put your finger on? let's call it Zazz.
it does?
then crank it my friend.
you ear drums will grow back later on, it's cool.
so anyway, i was wandering around downtown the other day, enjoying the sun and scenery and the wonder of portable riffage courtesy of Cyrus, my beloved iPod.
i was in one of my moods... let's call it "exceptionally stoked". it's always a blessing to stumble into a mood like this for no good reason, so you have to nurture the mood properly and hopefully sustain it for several hours. i did this by clicking over to one of my louder and more epic playlists, affectionately titled "Most Triumphant".
and most triumphant it was.
perhaps too triumphant, because i began displaying outward signs of Rock Affirmation.
some of these signs include:
silently screaming the chouruses of songs
swinging my arms and walking like a retard just to stay in time with the music
random and fitfull snapping, clapping and "yeahhh!"-ing
subtle yet vigorous blasts of air guitar
these are all fine ways to behave when attending a rock concert or house party, but behaving this way while cruising the crowded sidewalks of the city in the summer is a sure way to draw some disapproving "what's up with that guy?" type stares.
for example: i was stopped at a busy intersection, waiting for the lights to change. the song i was just listening to faded out and i was greeted by the opening riff of Black Sabbath's "Symptom of the Universe".
and i was helpless.
i cannot hear this song without bending slightly at the knees, leaning back and shredding like i'm in some kind of hostage situation where the only way i can subdue my attackers and free my friends and lovers is by shredding on my air guitar to this song.
the riff is just absolutely menacing.
it's the kind of riff that if it were a person it would sneak into your house at night and wake you up by jumping on your bed, chugging that bottle of single malt whiskey you were saving for the cottage, smashing your favorite chair against your favorite TV and pleasuring your once cold and distant wife until she was writhing like a stripper on acid, all at the same time.
as i said before, i was helpless.
in a heavy shred like this i sometimes close my eyes. sometimes i even go as far as throwing my head back and grimacing, but this time i just closed my eyes.
it felt appropriate.
slash that; it felt necessary.
when i opened my eyes i noticed some of the people waiting across the street were watching my performance and laughing, giving me the thumb's up.
i'd like to think that they knew i had no other course of action.
and maybe they did.
if they knew exactly what i was listening to they would nod approvingly in unison, "he's doing the right thing."
and this brings me to my Great Dream.
someday, somewhere in public, with my headphones strapped on securely, i will once again be forced to spontaniously burst into a face melting air guitar solo. as i do this i will turn and see a supple and gorgeous young woman, also wearing headphones (and perhaps hot denim cutoffs and a leather bra) and shredding heavily on her own air guitar. as we walk slowly towards each other, lost in rapture, we will realise we are playing the exact same riff from the exact same song at the exact same moment. this realization will set off a romantic frenzy in her brain, an uncalculated rush of estrogen and endorphins and whatever else attacking her senses, and for a quarter of a second she almost contemplates tossing off her headphones and jumping into my wirey, pale arms, but her eyes catch mine and they lock and she knows from my stern but flirty glare that we must finish the song.
but it's too much.
so we just finish the good part of the song.
then a polite introduction and maybe a sit and a drink.
to calm us down, make us sensible for a second.
that's when i'll request unrestricted access to her boobs.
and if i play my cards right, she just might grant it.
here i am.
rock you like a hurricane.

it was young and we were summer

the only reason i remember it was summer is because i was wearing shorts, which i rarely wore outside of the June-to-August stretch. and it wasn't just any summer, it was "one of those summers". those rare beasts where you're old enough to have discovered drugs and booze and tits and rock and roll but you're still young enough to get away with not having a job. at the time i assumed this was the norm, your standard do-nothing-unless-it-pleases-me summer. looking back now i realize it was the Sacred Flying Unicorn of all summers, and i'll probably never see anything quite like it again.

but it wasn't all Majesty and Bottle Tokes and Endless Makeout Parties In The Woods By The Highway. even this summer had it's dry spells, and they usually occurred around mid-afternoon on weekdays.

so, right around lunchtime on what was probably a Tuesday, Matt and Chris and i found ourselves listless. listless and bored. luckily we were savvy enough to know that smoking hash could cure both of these ailments, if only temporarily. luckier still, we happened to have some hash. so we jauntily made our way down to The Place By The Tracks. {which was exactly what it sounds like, a nice little nook of secluded shrubbage just downslope from our local train tracks. later to be known as The Place Where That Homeless Guy Hid That Lumber, The Place Where Dave Freaked Out and The Place Where I Hid After Setting Those Fires.}

after much mid-afternoon mirth making at The Place, we re-emerged onto the train tracks. we were young, we were smiling like idiots and we were hungry. but not go home to where my parents live hungry. we were the opposite of that. we needed laughter and excitement. and the only place to find that sort of thing on a Tuesday afternoon was down the tracks, across the bridge and into the ever entertaing Cape Breton Shopping Plaza.
Wal-Mart!
A Pharmacy!
A Lamp Store!
and, naturally, a Tim Hortons.
Tim Hortons!
so, being unwealthy hash smoking middle-teens, we entered Tim Hortons.

at this point we were no strangers to the Act Sensibly When Stoned In Public manual, so we stepped to the counter and wooed the attendant with our "may i's" and our "pleases" and our "yes, that's wonderful, thank you's". {note to stoned teenagers: talking like a super-polite douchebag when you are obviously a long-haired stoned teenager is embarrasing and a waste of time. they know. trust me. who do you think you're kidding? look at you.}

we gathered our food/beverages and planted ourselves at a small table near the door. a quick scan of the room told us we were the only people under the age of 39 on the premesis. this meant nothing. the second we sat down with food and cold, refreshing, replenshing, cold, delicious soft drinks our facade of sensible politeness devolved into a swirling tempest of loud noises, off color comments, and laughing with our mouths hanging open while still containing moderately chewed amounts food. because we were sitting at a four seat table and there were three of us, i was the odd man out. i sat facing Matt and Chris while they faced everyone else in the restaurant. i preferred seats that faced out the window and into the street. i still do. i always will.

anyway, our endlessly charming youthful shenanigans continued for some time. we were getting to the point of flicking bits of uneaten food stuff at eachother when it happened. it happened without warning and it carried right over my shoulder and into my ear.
cold and piercing.
i heard a robot speak.
in a threatening, futuristic robot voice.
i heard it loud and clear.
i couldn't make out exactly what it had said, but i know what a fucking robot from the future/some parallel Tim Hortons sounds like.
i'm a goddamned sci-fi enthusiast!
so, i freaked. i freaked and i shouted.
"holy shit!! did you guys just hear a ROBOT!!"

you know how in a movie, when someone says something shocking in public, there's always a big pregnant silence, and then, from the back somewhere, you hear someone drop a spoon, probably in disbelief? Chris and Matt were frozen in Carbonite until that spoon hit. and i forget which one of them it was, but once the spoon had finished it's brief clattering, one of them raised a finger, very slowly, and pointed behind me. just over my shoulder. "you. idiot.", he spat under his breath.

i shouldn't have turned around at all.
then i wouldn't have had to face the old man with throat cancer who had to use one of those vocoder voicebox machines to communicate with people, strangers and loved ones alike, trying his best to overcome his disability and not be ridiculed or made the subject of robot-themed mockery.
i wouldn't have had to face his middle aged son {or lover, who knows} who glared poisonous, molten-hot daggers of loathing and disgust into my slack jawed, hash-addled face.
i wouldn't have had to face the entire population of the restaurant, staff and patron alike, doing the exact same thing.
but i did.
i met each and every set of hate-filled eyes with my own.
i opened my mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain, but my brain must have read the synapses wrong because my legs jumped up and ran me out the door in a quarter of a second.
i ran out the door and behind the building.
i sat and i smoked and i rehearsed what i would tell Satan about today when i met him in hell, because that's where i was going now.
after what seemed like a decade Matt and Chris found me out back.
and they berated me.
they couldn't believe what i had done.
"what's wrong with you?!"
"you asshole!!"
"blah blah fucking blah dumbass!!"
they were so ashamed that tears of laughter were streaming down their faces.
god, i hope they forgive me.

meeting people is easy

Girl @ Liquor Store: "hi. how are you today?"

Me: "i'm great, thanks."

G@LS: "wow...that's a lot of wine."

Me: "yeah, i'm gonna need it."

G@LS: "really?" [flirty smile] "what are you celebrating?"

Me: "i'm celebrating the futility of trying to mend the infinite chasm of sorrow and resentment i've created between myself and everyone i love."

G@LS: "..............................."

Me: "ha ha! i'm just messin' with ya. i drink because i'm sick. can i have my change? i've gotta buy some mints."

G@LS: [hands change over, not amused]

Me: "wanna come over later?"