And so I've been thinking a lot lately because this is vacation time and sorry to disappoint your bizarre expectations if you thought anything productive or constructive would ever come out of this sabbatical. But thinking is dangerous business because who knows where it will ever lead and lately it's been pretty nihilistic, all doom and gloom pity party for one right this way sir.
Everything seems pretty hopeless from right here and I've been spending time with my friends lately and this isn't even enough to cheer me up these days because I keep thinking that these people who I hang out with, while amazing wonderful people and etc, these people are not in sync with me. There is a fracture somewhere, it's minute and tiny and I can usually forget that it's even there, but then I am once again reminded that we are operating on different wavelengths. I don't want to say I'm smarter than them because "smart", what is that you know, it's relative and not the most useful adjective here but I'd definitely say that I am more in tune with the world around us, more aware, more cognizant of the relationships, the causes and the effects, the consequences of actions, the ripples created by butterflies and whatever else it is you get from picking up a newspaper and taking liberal arts courses and reading books by dead white guys with important names.
University is the time and place where you are supposed to find your kindred spirits and bunker down with people who you will know for the rest of your life and share great experiences with and stay up late studying for exams or whatever but I've missed that train and my friends are still the same people from high school which means that we are as diverse and spread out as can be and maybe sometimes I think maybe these people are not the best people to hang out with because these are not the kind of people who ever discuss the last book they read or who ever have any meaningful contact with pretentious indie rock or ever feel the need to talk politics and ethics and religion and whenever those topics do come up I feel like a university professor participating in a grade school debate, which is unfair of me to say but I'm not going to lie here, now, about this.
It makes sense that my lack of any meaningful emotional ties to this university I've been attending for one and half years is part of the problem of my great disconnect. I am trying to propel myself, an island, through four years of tortuous schooling with no prize to aim for and no friends to cheer me on and lift me up and say, hey if you ever want to talk about the underlying causes of the American Civil War and the negative, lasting effect of reconstruction on the South, well I'm here for you. There are no girls to impress and no friends to compete for marks with and there is certainly no deep seated, bosom born love and passion for history to push me to higher levels and it all seems so pointless again.
Whatever whatever whatever is just what I want to say, shout, whatever, just want to get that message across that I don't care and I don't know what to do or where to go or what to think or how we do or anything at all really. I don't know anything. Basically.
I want to write a story, or a script, or a song or make a webcomic, or do something but I do not want to go back to school or have anything to do with formal learning because formal learning only results in formal tests on that formal learning and I don't care about the learning to start with so the testing isn't going to go well just by design. Man. Whatever.
Forget this noise, you know? Goodnight.
Horatio Halpern
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Death of Innocence and Whatever
Hey so here is a short list of things you shouldn't do: leave your credit card sticking out of pay machines. There are probably other things you should avoid doing, I don't know, make up your own rules but I can tell you definitively and objectively that trying to set up unplanned tests in civic ethics involving dangling credit cards will only end in disappointment for you because people are jerks, all people, ever and there are so few good people that they are statistically insignificant and can be safely disregarded without affecting the results. I lucked out essentially. Distracted by whatever, my friends, the booze swishing around inside me, the loud sounds and pretty lights I don't know but I do know that twenty minutes after I last saw that piece of plastic I had this horrible sinking feeling while I sat in the theatre and groped for my wallet and tried to remember putting the card back where it belonged.
I did not remember doing it because it did not happen which is the right way memories are supposed to work so it was into the lobby I rushed and I had another sinking sensation as I saw the streams of people flowing through the doors, the great mass of potential card thieves each one of them. The manager, a slightly portly man who looked like he got more satisfaction out his job than he probably had any right to took me over to a desk and flipped through a pile of lost and forgotten pieces of plastic, pieces of plastic who had been chanced upon by those statistically insignificant good samaritans I mentioned earlier and who were just waiting for their masters to return to them and then clutch them to their breast and say things like "oh I was so worried I thought someone might be doing something awful with my card I've definitely learned my lesson" except you can't learn your lesson until your card really has been stolen by someone who skipped out on the classes on mutual respect and brotherly love and rings up as many charges as he or she can because who knows how long the shelf life on a stolen card is.
I reported the card missing not thirty minutes after I last used it, and the card was blocked promptly but not before my enterprising card thieves had dinged it for a $170 worth of merchandise which is what you do when you find a credit card kids, you run out and you buy as much crap as fast as possible, forget about turning it in because that's for squares and losers who don't see the possibility of a new wardrobe hidden within that small rectangle, that small rectangle punched with that name of person you're never going to meet, right? Everybody needs to learn that the world is an ugly, grimy place eventually and if you can do it for at least one person by joy riding down a hill made of expensive goodies then I think you have made the world just that much more sober and grown up and good for you sir, just don't get caught by the credit card company bastards because if there is anybody more soulless and more able to kick ass on credit card fraud, it's the companies who issues those magnetized beauties and if you get caught I can only hope and assume that there are secret Siberian gaols set up in the post-Soviet meltdown designed for the unique set of human beings who somehow get off on fraud and identity theft and if Dante was still around to write the sequel I'm sure that they would receive their own layer of hell. This is what I hope.
I had to fill out a police report, was what the credit card company rep told me because this fraud under 5G's is serious business which meant I had to make my first trip to a police station and had to talk to a policeman who took down all the deets and the whole thing felt kind of silly because their was sense a between us that we both knew not much would come of this because it was just $170 and it was just one missing credit card, and if the police don't do jack all when cars go missing why should I hope for anything here and don't I feel special giving the mundane details to this man in uniform who I took off the street just so I could complain about the bad men who found the valuable slip of plastic that I carelessly left in a place I should not have and it's not like I had any right to expect a different outcome when I've already established that the world is populated solely by jerks and the losers who want to be jerks and if you are sitting somewhere reading this shaking your head saying to yourself I am most certainly not a jerk and I know at least three, four, five people who I would define as being not jerklike, to which I would reply, no you are probably wrong about the jerking tendencies of both yourself and the people you know and that furthermore if you are one of the good ones, the kind of person who turns in credit cards that have been forgotten in compromising places, and promptly returns mail addressed to your neighbour and holds the door open whether the woman is hot or not, and who doesn't scowl when you need to make way for a space hogging wheelchair and a thousand other small courtesies that are pretty easy to forget about, well then hey there brother or sister ain't life a funny pickle?
No, it's a shriveled, dried up and crusty pickle, long forgotten and rightly so behind the fridge. Let it stay there.
Horatio
I did not remember doing it because it did not happen which is the right way memories are supposed to work so it was into the lobby I rushed and I had another sinking sensation as I saw the streams of people flowing through the doors, the great mass of potential card thieves each one of them. The manager, a slightly portly man who looked like he got more satisfaction out his job than he probably had any right to took me over to a desk and flipped through a pile of lost and forgotten pieces of plastic, pieces of plastic who had been chanced upon by those statistically insignificant good samaritans I mentioned earlier and who were just waiting for their masters to return to them and then clutch them to their breast and say things like "oh I was so worried I thought someone might be doing something awful with my card I've definitely learned my lesson" except you can't learn your lesson until your card really has been stolen by someone who skipped out on the classes on mutual respect and brotherly love and rings up as many charges as he or she can because who knows how long the shelf life on a stolen card is.
I reported the card missing not thirty minutes after I last used it, and the card was blocked promptly but not before my enterprising card thieves had dinged it for a $170 worth of merchandise which is what you do when you find a credit card kids, you run out and you buy as much crap as fast as possible, forget about turning it in because that's for squares and losers who don't see the possibility of a new wardrobe hidden within that small rectangle, that small rectangle punched with that name of person you're never going to meet, right? Everybody needs to learn that the world is an ugly, grimy place eventually and if you can do it for at least one person by joy riding down a hill made of expensive goodies then I think you have made the world just that much more sober and grown up and good for you sir, just don't get caught by the credit card company bastards because if there is anybody more soulless and more able to kick ass on credit card fraud, it's the companies who issues those magnetized beauties and if you get caught I can only hope and assume that there are secret Siberian gaols set up in the post-Soviet meltdown designed for the unique set of human beings who somehow get off on fraud and identity theft and if Dante was still around to write the sequel I'm sure that they would receive their own layer of hell. This is what I hope.
I had to fill out a police report, was what the credit card company rep told me because this fraud under 5G's is serious business which meant I had to make my first trip to a police station and had to talk to a policeman who took down all the deets and the whole thing felt kind of silly because their was sense a between us that we both knew not much would come of this because it was just $170 and it was just one missing credit card, and if the police don't do jack all when cars go missing why should I hope for anything here and don't I feel special giving the mundane details to this man in uniform who I took off the street just so I could complain about the bad men who found the valuable slip of plastic that I carelessly left in a place I should not have and it's not like I had any right to expect a different outcome when I've already established that the world is populated solely by jerks and the losers who want to be jerks and if you are sitting somewhere reading this shaking your head saying to yourself I am most certainly not a jerk and I know at least three, four, five people who I would define as being not jerklike, to which I would reply, no you are probably wrong about the jerking tendencies of both yourself and the people you know and that furthermore if you are one of the good ones, the kind of person who turns in credit cards that have been forgotten in compromising places, and promptly returns mail addressed to your neighbour and holds the door open whether the woman is hot or not, and who doesn't scowl when you need to make way for a space hogging wheelchair and a thousand other small courtesies that are pretty easy to forget about, well then hey there brother or sister ain't life a funny pickle?
No, it's a shriveled, dried up and crusty pickle, long forgotten and rightly so behind the fridge. Let it stay there.
Horatio
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Fire is so Delightful
There is snow on the ground, lots and lots and then some more and you look everywhere and there are just huge mounds of it all piled high, ready for diving and tunneling and impromtu snowball fights. Our backyard is amazing. Unspoiled and serene and probably a quarter of a metre deep and just so perfect that even though it is tempting to go and run and jump and play and turn back the clock it's difficult to work up the courage to take that first step into that backyard tundra; that pristine canvas that mother nature has already signed and put on display so that we may sit and stare and wonder while we drink hot mugs of tea or hot chocolate or cider or whatever it is that gets you in that winter mood from within the safety of your own home. I love it.
People with commitments to the real world, people with jobs and commutes and real lives may not love it so much but I could care less if their daily ride to work is slower if it means that for a few weeks I can huddle inside and watch the world outside blanketed with wonderful white while I pretend that school does not exist and that everything will work out fine, somehow. The snow comes this time of year as school shuts down and it blankets the roads and sidewalks and more importantly it blankets, it smothers any problems at that institution of higher learning at least for a short while but even for that I am grateful.
I am not so grateful for Christmas, this holiday with religious undertones and heartwarming capitalist overtones, and every year I seem to write the same post questioning my supposed commitment to it. My family is not Christian. We fall under that funny segment of North America that is peculiarly a-religious and this has worked out fine for us but it makes me a little queasy around Christmas time as the entire continent gears up to celebrate Jesus' birthday. But this year I don't feel like complaining. I like to think I've reached a happy compromise with Christmas. I still don't care for gift giving, I'd rather receive nothing if it meant I didn't have to give anything, but don't listen to me, that's just my scrooge talking. I've also started to find Christmas specials particularly unwatchable, though I doubt this is something singular to me. I watch these shows and these character spout lines about wanting the perfect Christmas or whatever it is you need to do to achieve Santa's approval and I just cannot mesh that with real life, you know? It leaves me confused to think that there are people out there, somewhere, you just know they're lurking somewhere, who truly still take Christmas seriously. Is this possible? To approach Christmas from anything other than, "Oh boy here comes Christmas... Again" Does anybody see their first Christmas commercial in late October and say, "Yes, finally I can spread the joy of giving again"?
I assume that these people exist because I guess they are a statistical necessity, but it's the fact that these people are so far from my comfort zone; I have no idea what makes a person like that tick. I can't get in their head. I can't understand after all these years of bad mall Santa's and endless commercials urging you to buy, buy, buy just so that everybody you know will keep loving you, after all this there are people out there who still look to Christmas as something pure or authentic or worth getting worked up over.
I don't want to rag on Christmas this year. After all that magical day always rolls around and I'm always there under the tree getting mine so it is alway naggingly hypocritical for me to open my mouth against it.
My mom always asks, and this happens around birthdays too, what would you like? and I realise I must be the worst person to shop for because I am a man of no needs. I do not covet merchandise like it was a path to self improvement. It's just stuff and keeping mental lists of stuff I want, not need, but want in that base instinctual urge that I guess we all have to accumulate, does not appeal to me. Guys what I'm saying is that if everyone in the world were more like me, besides the obvious truth that the world would be a more handsome place, Christmas would be ruined.
I like some aspects of Christmas. The skating in front of city hall all lit up with festive colours and the time off from school is not something I will ever complain about and if all Jesus did by dying was to get me a month away from studying I'm fine with that. I can't end on that note.
The snow that is currently causing havoc with the city's productivity came all on Sunday in one day long push and we did not make it outside until five or so in the evening at which point we had lost our front steps. Let me explain my house. It is on a hill up from the sidewalk, a not inconsequential hill that makes mail people work for their paycheque and trick or treaters question how badly they want that bite sized candy bar. This is good for us at Halloween because there is left over candy to spare, but it not so good for shoveling as it requires that many more steps to plow. These are things you need to consider when you buy a house on a hill. Extra Halloween candy, but extra shoveling as well. I was not included in the decision making process when this house was bought. I was two. I would have gone for the candy anyway. So our front steps had disappeared and were instead replaced with a powdery straight run bobsled course, except at the end was a rather immovable car on the street and not a gold medal and champagne so instead of tobogganing down we had to wade, trusting in a higher power that there were in fact concrete steps buried somewhere beneath all that snow and that we would not sink to our shoulders and be carried off by marauding polar bears.
Snow is the great uniter on this street. The whole neighbourhood was turned out to reclaim their property from the snow and their cars from the snow plows. It was heartwarming, I think. Was that the spirit of Christmas out there that night, as we all dug in like inmates on a dusty Nevada highway? I feel sorry for people who never see snow. They'd probably laugh if they read that. You sorry for us? But snow is wonderful and it just makes you think that sometimes, even for just a short while, that the world outside is has reached perfection and that you wouldn't mind if it kept snowing forever because you have a whole bag of marshmallows and that is real cocoa in that mug and the fire is burning, a real fire with logs and no gas involved here, and yeah, everything is going to be alright.
Merry Christmas,
Horatio
People with commitments to the real world, people with jobs and commutes and real lives may not love it so much but I could care less if their daily ride to work is slower if it means that for a few weeks I can huddle inside and watch the world outside blanketed with wonderful white while I pretend that school does not exist and that everything will work out fine, somehow. The snow comes this time of year as school shuts down and it blankets the roads and sidewalks and more importantly it blankets, it smothers any problems at that institution of higher learning at least for a short while but even for that I am grateful.
I am not so grateful for Christmas, this holiday with religious undertones and heartwarming capitalist overtones, and every year I seem to write the same post questioning my supposed commitment to it. My family is not Christian. We fall under that funny segment of North America that is peculiarly a-religious and this has worked out fine for us but it makes me a little queasy around Christmas time as the entire continent gears up to celebrate Jesus' birthday. But this year I don't feel like complaining. I like to think I've reached a happy compromise with Christmas. I still don't care for gift giving, I'd rather receive nothing if it meant I didn't have to give anything, but don't listen to me, that's just my scrooge talking. I've also started to find Christmas specials particularly unwatchable, though I doubt this is something singular to me. I watch these shows and these character spout lines about wanting the perfect Christmas or whatever it is you need to do to achieve Santa's approval and I just cannot mesh that with real life, you know? It leaves me confused to think that there are people out there, somewhere, you just know they're lurking somewhere, who truly still take Christmas seriously. Is this possible? To approach Christmas from anything other than, "Oh boy here comes Christmas... Again" Does anybody see their first Christmas commercial in late October and say, "Yes, finally I can spread the joy of giving again"?
I assume that these people exist because I guess they are a statistical necessity, but it's the fact that these people are so far from my comfort zone; I have no idea what makes a person like that tick. I can't get in their head. I can't understand after all these years of bad mall Santa's and endless commercials urging you to buy, buy, buy just so that everybody you know will keep loving you, after all this there are people out there who still look to Christmas as something pure or authentic or worth getting worked up over.
I don't want to rag on Christmas this year. After all that magical day always rolls around and I'm always there under the tree getting mine so it is alway naggingly hypocritical for me to open my mouth against it.
My mom always asks, and this happens around birthdays too, what would you like? and I realise I must be the worst person to shop for because I am a man of no needs. I do not covet merchandise like it was a path to self improvement. It's just stuff and keeping mental lists of stuff I want, not need, but want in that base instinctual urge that I guess we all have to accumulate, does not appeal to me. Guys what I'm saying is that if everyone in the world were more like me, besides the obvious truth that the world would be a more handsome place, Christmas would be ruined.
I like some aspects of Christmas. The skating in front of city hall all lit up with festive colours and the time off from school is not something I will ever complain about and if all Jesus did by dying was to get me a month away from studying I'm fine with that. I can't end on that note.
The snow that is currently causing havoc with the city's productivity came all on Sunday in one day long push and we did not make it outside until five or so in the evening at which point we had lost our front steps. Let me explain my house. It is on a hill up from the sidewalk, a not inconsequential hill that makes mail people work for their paycheque and trick or treaters question how badly they want that bite sized candy bar. This is good for us at Halloween because there is left over candy to spare, but it not so good for shoveling as it requires that many more steps to plow. These are things you need to consider when you buy a house on a hill. Extra Halloween candy, but extra shoveling as well. I was not included in the decision making process when this house was bought. I was two. I would have gone for the candy anyway. So our front steps had disappeared and were instead replaced with a powdery straight run bobsled course, except at the end was a rather immovable car on the street and not a gold medal and champagne so instead of tobogganing down we had to wade, trusting in a higher power that there were in fact concrete steps buried somewhere beneath all that snow and that we would not sink to our shoulders and be carried off by marauding polar bears.
Snow is the great uniter on this street. The whole neighbourhood was turned out to reclaim their property from the snow and their cars from the snow plows. It was heartwarming, I think. Was that the spirit of Christmas out there that night, as we all dug in like inmates on a dusty Nevada highway? I feel sorry for people who never see snow. They'd probably laugh if they read that. You sorry for us? But snow is wonderful and it just makes you think that sometimes, even for just a short while, that the world outside is has reached perfection and that you wouldn't mind if it kept snowing forever because you have a whole bag of marshmallows and that is real cocoa in that mug and the fire is burning, a real fire with logs and no gas involved here, and yeah, everything is going to be alright.
Merry Christmas,
Horatio
Thursday, December 13, 2007
On Keeping Journals
I tried keeping a journal once, but I couldn't do it. Actually it was just a few months ago. It lasted a little while and I was ok about updating it but not great and then sometimes I would go a week with out writing anything and then all of sudden this little exercise in memory building became another chore, something I had to do and I resented it for it because nobody tells me what to do, man. Once it loses the fun aspect, what's the point in continuing?
Another thing that started to bother me about that little notebook was how plain out bad my writing was. There was no flair, or attempts at prose or anything that would compel somebody to publish it fifty years after I die, which, let's be honest, is the only reason I would ever keep a diary in the first place. I became embarrassed by the lazy sentences being attributed to my name, like they were libelous lines written to undermine my good name. That's where this happy refuge came into play because when I write for the internet, even if, and entirely in spite of the fact that nobody reads it, I at least try to write in such a way that I would not be ashamed to one day take credit for it. It's like when you're living alone and all unemployed in your squalid bachelor hole and suddenly shaving doesn't seem so important anymore and if those dishes don't get washed with in the next week there's not going to be anybody to complain and I still have paper plates from that party a few months ago so I should be good for another couple weeks and maybe by then I might be desperate enough to hit up the laundromat too, but we'll play that one by ear. That's what my journal looked like. Sloppy and lazily and unshaven and not something you'd be proud to tell any one about.
Good riddance to that. Now I have you internet, and I'd like to think the quality has upped itself in the interim even if maybe it's more emo than is good for anyone. This blog is fun. I can write whatever I want and I can be as honest as I want to be or don't want to be because sometimes there are secrets that you don't even want to tell yourself, let alone your anonymous internet self who has the advantage of having all that stuff written down for posterity which in the end is the real reason any one keeps a journal. We can't all be Anne Frank, but we do all grow and change as people, usually for the better I hope, though let's keep this value neutral and not judge anybody and just say that journals give you a glimpse of that growing entity that is yourself and it freezes little frames and if you string together enough of those little frames you can piece together this jerky, but charming little stop-motion version of yourself as you were when you felt so compelled to hammer out words on the page, whether the page is electronic or analog or fancy podcasts or however it is you record yourself for posterity.
I want to cheat so bad and just jump ahead in time so that I can read this in that future context where I am older and wiser and handsomer and I can read back with a smile of whimsy at that poor confused kid who didn't have any answers but pretended to anyway and I want to be that future guy who will one day read this and think such distant thoughts. How will he read this? Will he cringe at that sight of this breathless prose and wonder how, or why he ever wrote like that or will he try and sit back and get into the head of the person he was when he wrote this and try and remember what was pushing him and motivating him, or will he look back with some sort of regret and dig out the optimism buried in here and will he hold it up and wonder what ever happened to that boundless faith that something good would come from this? I want to know who I will be when I grow up - a phrase which is quickly losing its meaning as I get closer and closer to this date when I am actually grown up, if I'm not there already which is entirely debatable, but perhaps on another day when we have sunshine on the veranda and a darling pot of bone china full of steaming tea and all the time in the world to define our terms.
So I keep writing these postcards to the future, not expecting a reply though I eagerly await the day when I begin to receive these messages from the past, one day in the far off future when perhaps the robots or Google will rule or maybe we will have discovered peace and harmony or more likely it will look like today but with faster cars and more commercials and I will rediscover these stacks of posts in the back of my figurative Internet closet and I will pour over them and maybe if I'm doing this right that future self, hey man how are you today?, maybe if I'm doing this right by now he'll have a small tear rolling out of one eye, or better yet a great smile and a longing to connect with that young man who shares his name and genes and rugged good looks but only a few of the memories that have made him who he is and so to him I say, I'll keep writing this if you keep reading. Rock on future me.
Jason
Another thing that started to bother me about that little notebook was how plain out bad my writing was. There was no flair, or attempts at prose or anything that would compel somebody to publish it fifty years after I die, which, let's be honest, is the only reason I would ever keep a diary in the first place. I became embarrassed by the lazy sentences being attributed to my name, like they were libelous lines written to undermine my good name. That's where this happy refuge came into play because when I write for the internet, even if, and entirely in spite of the fact that nobody reads it, I at least try to write in such a way that I would not be ashamed to one day take credit for it. It's like when you're living alone and all unemployed in your squalid bachelor hole and suddenly shaving doesn't seem so important anymore and if those dishes don't get washed with in the next week there's not going to be anybody to complain and I still have paper plates from that party a few months ago so I should be good for another couple weeks and maybe by then I might be desperate enough to hit up the laundromat too, but we'll play that one by ear. That's what my journal looked like. Sloppy and lazily and unshaven and not something you'd be proud to tell any one about.
Good riddance to that. Now I have you internet, and I'd like to think the quality has upped itself in the interim even if maybe it's more emo than is good for anyone. This blog is fun. I can write whatever I want and I can be as honest as I want to be or don't want to be because sometimes there are secrets that you don't even want to tell yourself, let alone your anonymous internet self who has the advantage of having all that stuff written down for posterity which in the end is the real reason any one keeps a journal. We can't all be Anne Frank, but we do all grow and change as people, usually for the better I hope, though let's keep this value neutral and not judge anybody and just say that journals give you a glimpse of that growing entity that is yourself and it freezes little frames and if you string together enough of those little frames you can piece together this jerky, but charming little stop-motion version of yourself as you were when you felt so compelled to hammer out words on the page, whether the page is electronic or analog or fancy podcasts or however it is you record yourself for posterity.
I want to cheat so bad and just jump ahead in time so that I can read this in that future context where I am older and wiser and handsomer and I can read back with a smile of whimsy at that poor confused kid who didn't have any answers but pretended to anyway and I want to be that future guy who will one day read this and think such distant thoughts. How will he read this? Will he cringe at that sight of this breathless prose and wonder how, or why he ever wrote like that or will he try and sit back and get into the head of the person he was when he wrote this and try and remember what was pushing him and motivating him, or will he look back with some sort of regret and dig out the optimism buried in here and will he hold it up and wonder what ever happened to that boundless faith that something good would come from this? I want to know who I will be when I grow up - a phrase which is quickly losing its meaning as I get closer and closer to this date when I am actually grown up, if I'm not there already which is entirely debatable, but perhaps on another day when we have sunshine on the veranda and a darling pot of bone china full of steaming tea and all the time in the world to define our terms.
So I keep writing these postcards to the future, not expecting a reply though I eagerly await the day when I begin to receive these messages from the past, one day in the far off future when perhaps the robots or Google will rule or maybe we will have discovered peace and harmony or more likely it will look like today but with faster cars and more commercials and I will rediscover these stacks of posts in the back of my figurative Internet closet and I will pour over them and maybe if I'm doing this right that future self, hey man how are you today?, maybe if I'm doing this right by now he'll have a small tear rolling out of one eye, or better yet a great smile and a longing to connect with that young man who shares his name and genes and rugged good looks but only a few of the memories that have made him who he is and so to him I say, I'll keep writing this if you keep reading. Rock on future me.
Jason
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Lafcadio, The Lion Who Shot Back
I've cornered myself in a bad situation but I didn't want to think about that today; now that exams are done I have too much time to think, so I went walking down to Queen St. I guess you don't know what Queen St looks like Internet, when I say Queen St that doesn't mean anything to you even if for me it carries memories and history and a whole back story that you are missing out on when I name drop this street. It's nice street, a quasi-hip commercial strip full of mom and pop joints and chic restaurants and there's a real sense of community going around and I wish you could live here too because for my money there isn't a better neighbourhood in Toronto than the Beaches, even if it is whiter than white, and the houses require minimum deposits of first born children and the old people insist on calling it the Beach which is a stupid pet peeve of my but it is just such an awkward name for the neighbourhood but you just know that if the Beaches Business Improvement Area folks ever get their act together and get us street signs that label our neighbourhood like every other single 'hood in Toronto does, that those signs will say "The Beach" and not "The Beaches" because old people are the ones who get crotchety about that kind of thing and write angry letters to the community papers and their city councilor and everybody else is just kinda meh about it. I wish I could bring you into the argument here and make you care about the troubles of a small, upper-middle class neighbourhood on the outskirts of downtown Toronto but that seems unlikely.
Right, so I went walking on Queen St, which is an upscale commercial street and just lovely for walking on especially on cold December afternoons when the sky is blue and the air is crisp but not so bad that you can't leave the jacket unzipped. I went into a bookstore, an independent chain that has nothing to do with the Chapters/Indigo Big Book monopoly, unlike the little Coles five minutes in the other direction, which is I guess the brand name they use when they don't have room to drop a megastore on the corner. Bookstores are great. I'll drop my resume into this place one day. When the university career doesn't pan out I'll fall back on the indie book store. Yes.
Have you ever read Shel Silverstein? I hope the answer is yes. The Giving Tree and Where the Sidewalk ends and much, much more importantly, Lafcadio, The Lion Who Shot Back. These books should be required reading for kids. If you have kids, you'd do them, and probably yourself a favour by picking them up. When I was in elementary school there was one teacher who we all considered to be a walking rock star. He was the lone man on staff and we all venerated him and called him Sir whenever we addressed him and it was every students' goal, from the moment they met him, to get into his class for grade six. I was not placed in his class but it was as if the teachers understood the importance of this man, and even though he was not our teacher for that final year of elementary school, we still spent much time in his class room learning social studies and life lesson and much, much more importantly, listening to him read us Lafcadio, the Lion Who Shot Back. We'd gather with giddy anticipation because this was not the first time he would read us this story, and it would not be the last and he would launch into that great Lafcadio roar and Silverstein's wit and humour and Sir's energy and enthusiasm would spellbind us so that our requests for Lafcadio never ended.
I think Sir retired a few years after I left which is a great loss for so many children who will never hear him roar and bellow and will never see him smile or give you that gentle encouragement that would allow you to run a marathon if he only asked you to.
I was in the back of this bookstore and there was a shelf full of Shel Silverstein and it occurred to me that even though his books are some of the greatest children's lit ever made I did not have any that I could call my own and I then thought, could I give any of them as a gift to my little brothers?, and I mean I could, but I know that the books, wonderful as they are, would not have been appreciated by those two cretins, at least not appreciated in the reverential way that is only befitting Shel and so I decided I would not give them as gifts because I would hate for my brothers, who have rocky relationships with books as is, to grow up resenting The Missing Piece just because of that one Christmas where they received it instead of another video game. So I bought Lafcadio for myself, a Christmas present pour moi, and it was all I could do not to just grab every book on the shelf, sweep them into my arms and then dump them triumphantly on the counter. But reality sucks and I don't have the money to invest in a Shel Silverstein complete set, even if that would please me to no small end and I have to urge you, no matter you age to go down to your public library today and check out whatever they have by Silverstein because you cannot be disappointed by what you find.
The lady at the counter couldn't help but smile too and she told me how badly she loved Lafcadio and how her copy was so badly worn down with hard love and I don't know if she was flirting with me or she just really, really loved that book, but I'm ok with that because it really is a book that you can cherish and it may help that I have so many warm memories infused into that hard cover with the sparse drawing of a cowering lion and man, that perhaps other readers might not but when I think about it more, I ask myself, what am I doing writing this when I could be reading that?
Good night
Halpern
Right, so I went walking on Queen St, which is an upscale commercial street and just lovely for walking on especially on cold December afternoons when the sky is blue and the air is crisp but not so bad that you can't leave the jacket unzipped. I went into a bookstore, an independent chain that has nothing to do with the Chapters/Indigo Big Book monopoly, unlike the little Coles five minutes in the other direction, which is I guess the brand name they use when they don't have room to drop a megastore on the corner. Bookstores are great. I'll drop my resume into this place one day. When the university career doesn't pan out I'll fall back on the indie book store. Yes.
Have you ever read Shel Silverstein? I hope the answer is yes. The Giving Tree and Where the Sidewalk ends and much, much more importantly, Lafcadio, The Lion Who Shot Back. These books should be required reading for kids. If you have kids, you'd do them, and probably yourself a favour by picking them up. When I was in elementary school there was one teacher who we all considered to be a walking rock star. He was the lone man on staff and we all venerated him and called him Sir whenever we addressed him and it was every students' goal, from the moment they met him, to get into his class for grade six. I was not placed in his class but it was as if the teachers understood the importance of this man, and even though he was not our teacher for that final year of elementary school, we still spent much time in his class room learning social studies and life lesson and much, much more importantly, listening to him read us Lafcadio, the Lion Who Shot Back. We'd gather with giddy anticipation because this was not the first time he would read us this story, and it would not be the last and he would launch into that great Lafcadio roar and Silverstein's wit and humour and Sir's energy and enthusiasm would spellbind us so that our requests for Lafcadio never ended.
I think Sir retired a few years after I left which is a great loss for so many children who will never hear him roar and bellow and will never see him smile or give you that gentle encouragement that would allow you to run a marathon if he only asked you to.
I was in the back of this bookstore and there was a shelf full of Shel Silverstein and it occurred to me that even though his books are some of the greatest children's lit ever made I did not have any that I could call my own and I then thought, could I give any of them as a gift to my little brothers?, and I mean I could, but I know that the books, wonderful as they are, would not have been appreciated by those two cretins, at least not appreciated in the reverential way that is only befitting Shel and so I decided I would not give them as gifts because I would hate for my brothers, who have rocky relationships with books as is, to grow up resenting The Missing Piece just because of that one Christmas where they received it instead of another video game. So I bought Lafcadio for myself, a Christmas present pour moi, and it was all I could do not to just grab every book on the shelf, sweep them into my arms and then dump them triumphantly on the counter. But reality sucks and I don't have the money to invest in a Shel Silverstein complete set, even if that would please me to no small end and I have to urge you, no matter you age to go down to your public library today and check out whatever they have by Silverstein because you cannot be disappointed by what you find.
The lady at the counter couldn't help but smile too and she told me how badly she loved Lafcadio and how her copy was so badly worn down with hard love and I don't know if she was flirting with me or she just really, really loved that book, but I'm ok with that because it really is a book that you can cherish and it may help that I have so many warm memories infused into that hard cover with the sparse drawing of a cowering lion and man, that perhaps other readers might not but when I think about it more, I ask myself, what am I doing writing this when I could be reading that?
Good night
Halpern
Monday, December 10, 2007
Let Me Off the Ride
I hate this. School is no fun anymore. Maybe fun isn't the right word. But right now school is nothing but a source of stress and I just want it to go away, and I'm achieving this by ignoring school and I know that soon it will be Christmas break and I'll have a few weeks where I can pretend that everything is fine but then I'll come back in January and everything is still going to be awful and those unfinished essays will hang over me and just further reinforce the feeling that I should just give up now and call the whole thing off because it's all hopeless anyways, this place isn't for me, and maybe post-secondary education was the wrong way to go.
School is just so hopeless right now. I try and look back at my situation and all I can see is the hole I've dug for myself and right now it is so deep that crawling out would take the kind of effort and determination that I can never seem to muster these days. I don't know. This horrible part of me wants to give up and throw in that towel and just sit at home and watch the movie network all day and then there's another part of me that realizes the horrible mess I'm in and tries to get me to do something about it but eventually even that side kind of resigns itself and develops a drinking problem and it's all about will power and I've got nothing driving me. I have no connections to this school, no reason to feel I need to do better, and if I were to stop showing up for class tomorrow, there isn't anyone who would notice. This is the situation I have built for myself.
I don't know. I can't see how next semester will be any better when it's built on the ruins of this one. And it's not like this past semester will act as some grim reminder providing a constant kick in the ass because that's not how I work. Last year was supposed to be the grim reminder of what not to do in school and that resolution lasted all the way through September, maybe.
I hate this. I know how much money is being swirled away right now. I wish it was my money from my own pocket. Then I wouldn't feel obligated to mom. I wish I was living on my own so I wouldn't have to answer to people. Moving out sounds so sexy. I'm not about to but I can imagine it. If I could, my to do list would go, Drop out, move out, hook up, rock out and probably get a job too and just figure stuff out on my own. I think the best thing that could get my ass back in class and caring would be throwing myself into the job market. Let's see how long I go before I realise how badly I need that degree, even if it is in something stupid like English or History.
I'm a history major, which is part of the problem. I don't care about history. I mean I do, I can do it and everything but I can't get excited about it. I mean I'm sitting here in second year and I try to imagine myself going through two more years of history and it doesn't make me excited. Thinking of two more years of school doesn't make me excited period.
I need to take some time off. I need to get my drivers license and then I need to get out of here. I want to drive west. I need to get out of here. I need to get laid. I need to figure a lot of stuff out and I really don't feel like that's going to happen around here with the wellspring of guilt sleeping in the other room. I love my parents and they are great but they want what is best for me whatever that is and wouldn't take my aimless phase with open arms. But that's all I want right now, point my nose in any direction and just wander and maybe write some stuff down as I go but the more I think about it the more I know I don't want to be in school any more. There are too many creative differences between us. I don't like writing essays ok.
That's another thing: I don't know if this is just me running away from my troubles at school, or if it's me realising that school just isn't for me. I'm tending towards the running away just because I happen to know myself and blaming the school for my problems seems to easy. But either way I want out. How do I tell my parents that? Now that ten grand or so has been sunk into getting me educated how do I say that's enough now, the tank is full.
All of my problems seem to be entirely self made. I am self-destructive. What does this say about me. I'm sabotaging my university career and I can't help it. I just want out now. School can go suck it. I want off.
Humbert Humbert
School is just so hopeless right now. I try and look back at my situation and all I can see is the hole I've dug for myself and right now it is so deep that crawling out would take the kind of effort and determination that I can never seem to muster these days. I don't know. This horrible part of me wants to give up and throw in that towel and just sit at home and watch the movie network all day and then there's another part of me that realizes the horrible mess I'm in and tries to get me to do something about it but eventually even that side kind of resigns itself and develops a drinking problem and it's all about will power and I've got nothing driving me. I have no connections to this school, no reason to feel I need to do better, and if I were to stop showing up for class tomorrow, there isn't anyone who would notice. This is the situation I have built for myself.
I don't know. I can't see how next semester will be any better when it's built on the ruins of this one. And it's not like this past semester will act as some grim reminder providing a constant kick in the ass because that's not how I work. Last year was supposed to be the grim reminder of what not to do in school and that resolution lasted all the way through September, maybe.
I hate this. I know how much money is being swirled away right now. I wish it was my money from my own pocket. Then I wouldn't feel obligated to mom. I wish I was living on my own so I wouldn't have to answer to people. Moving out sounds so sexy. I'm not about to but I can imagine it. If I could, my to do list would go, Drop out, move out, hook up, rock out and probably get a job too and just figure stuff out on my own. I think the best thing that could get my ass back in class and caring would be throwing myself into the job market. Let's see how long I go before I realise how badly I need that degree, even if it is in something stupid like English or History.
I'm a history major, which is part of the problem. I don't care about history. I mean I do, I can do it and everything but I can't get excited about it. I mean I'm sitting here in second year and I try to imagine myself going through two more years of history and it doesn't make me excited. Thinking of two more years of school doesn't make me excited period.
I need to take some time off. I need to get my drivers license and then I need to get out of here. I want to drive west. I need to get out of here. I need to get laid. I need to figure a lot of stuff out and I really don't feel like that's going to happen around here with the wellspring of guilt sleeping in the other room. I love my parents and they are great but they want what is best for me whatever that is and wouldn't take my aimless phase with open arms. But that's all I want right now, point my nose in any direction and just wander and maybe write some stuff down as I go but the more I think about it the more I know I don't want to be in school any more. There are too many creative differences between us. I don't like writing essays ok.
That's another thing: I don't know if this is just me running away from my troubles at school, or if it's me realising that school just isn't for me. I'm tending towards the running away just because I happen to know myself and blaming the school for my problems seems to easy. But either way I want out. How do I tell my parents that? Now that ten grand or so has been sunk into getting me educated how do I say that's enough now, the tank is full.
All of my problems seem to be entirely self made. I am self-destructive. What does this say about me. I'm sabotaging my university career and I can't help it. I just want out now. School can go suck it. I want off.
Humbert Humbert
Santa Claws: A Complete Filmography
I can't stop myself. Here's a filmography for all the Santa Claws films, the chilling chronicle of Weresanta, the werewolf who only comes out on Christmas Eve and even then only if there's a full moon. They were all directed by the same man, that veteran shock-schlock director Victor Cancini, except for number four, which was directed by Gene Kaplan as Cancini was busy due to scheduling conflicts filming Hot Tub Murders 4. Cancini has personally called Santa Claws IV his favourite, but most independent observers agree he is lying.
Santa Claws (1986)
The movie that started it all. Santa is bitten by a werewolf on Christmas Eve and terrorizes the helpless Pound family. The Pound children, Brian, age 11, and Brittney, age 7, are rescued by their oldest brother, US Marine Jacob Pound. They kill Weresanta by loading the air gun Brian was to receive for Christmas with the solid silver star from atop the tree. They should have known of course, you can't kill Santa Claus.
Santa Claws II (1987)
Little, spoiled Bridgette Fitz-Hughes, asks her parents for a pony for Christmas. The pony would not be the only animal under her tree. Was poorly received by the direct to Beta market. The common complaint is that there is too much Santa and not enough Weresanta and that the movie is too much a tirade on the over-commercialization of Christmas and not enough a bloody werewolf movie.
Santa Claws III (1990)
Delayed after the poor response to number two, Santa Claws III sees a return to form and the introduction of the now famous flying Werereindeer. The story centres around young, disillusioned Jack McPluck (played by a young Leonardo di Caprio) who works as an elf in the mall's Santa display. He befriends an old out of work Santa who is, of course, none other than Weresanta and Jack must spend a harrowing night in the South Anaheim Mall fighting for his life against both Weresanta and his ferocious pack of werereindeer. The movie ends with Weresanta riding his sleigh into the night.
Santa Claws IV (1991)
Sees the return of Jack McPluck (played by different actor) one year later as he travels North searching for Weresanta. Largely set in Santa's workshop, long time fans called this particular werewolf story the hardest to believe and implausible addition to the series. Sees the introduction of Mrs. Wereclaus, and (unfortunately) the only ever instance of the were-elves.
Santa Claws V (1993)
Brings back the characters of Brian and Brittney Pound who have aged significantly in the seven real years between movies. Brittney is now 18, and spends much of her screen time topless. Brian sells insurance. Both have converted to Judaism after their traumatic Christmas experiences and have gathered to spend a quiet Hanukkah together. The only problem is this year, Hanukkah and Christmas fall on the same day, and Weresanta doesn't discriminate creed. The highlight of the movie is when a topless Brittney uses the menorah to set Weresanta on fire.
Santa Claws VI(1995)
Generally considered the turning point in the franchise. Santa and Mrs. Claus are in New York City and while visiting a young boy in the hospital, hit in the spinal chord by a stray bullet from a gang fight, he asks Santa if for Christmas, there can be no more gangs in his neighbourhood. Santa agrees, and come Christmas Eve he and Mrs. Wereclaus wipe out the gangs with their fangs. Many fans were confused and even angered to see Weresanta as a protagonist. The only Santa Claws in which Wereclaus actually saves Christmas.
Santa Claws VII (1996)
Santa Claus finds himself transported back in time by gamma rays or whatever. He arrives in a medieval Bavarian town that is ruled by a cruel burghermeister. Weresanta does battle with him on Christmas Eve and in the morning when Santa presents his ravaged body to the townspeople, the Christmas tradition of gift giving is born. The only Santa Claws in which Weresanta actually invents Christmas. Cancini had his named removed from the project, and almost every one involved considers the events in the movie to be strictly non-canon.
Santa Claws VIII (2000)
Wereclaws returns after a lengthy absence from the screen, only to find himself being hunted by Government agents on Christmas Eve. Can the hunted become the hunter? The scene in which the werereindeer attack a government helicopter surely deserves a place in B-Movie history. Currently the final installment in the Santa Claws series, though there are always rumours that Cancini is trying to revive his baby.
Santa Claws (1986)
The movie that started it all. Santa is bitten by a werewolf on Christmas Eve and terrorizes the helpless Pound family. The Pound children, Brian, age 11, and Brittney, age 7, are rescued by their oldest brother, US Marine Jacob Pound. They kill Weresanta by loading the air gun Brian was to receive for Christmas with the solid silver star from atop the tree. They should have known of course, you can't kill Santa Claus.
Santa Claws II (1987)
Little, spoiled Bridgette Fitz-Hughes, asks her parents for a pony for Christmas. The pony would not be the only animal under her tree. Was poorly received by the direct to Beta market. The common complaint is that there is too much Santa and not enough Weresanta and that the movie is too much a tirade on the over-commercialization of Christmas and not enough a bloody werewolf movie.
Santa Claws III (1990)
Delayed after the poor response to number two, Santa Claws III sees a return to form and the introduction of the now famous flying Werereindeer. The story centres around young, disillusioned Jack McPluck (played by a young Leonardo di Caprio) who works as an elf in the mall's Santa display. He befriends an old out of work Santa who is, of course, none other than Weresanta and Jack must spend a harrowing night in the South Anaheim Mall fighting for his life against both Weresanta and his ferocious pack of werereindeer. The movie ends with Weresanta riding his sleigh into the night.
Santa Claws IV (1991)
Sees the return of Jack McPluck (played by different actor) one year later as he travels North searching for Weresanta. Largely set in Santa's workshop, long time fans called this particular werewolf story the hardest to believe and implausible addition to the series. Sees the introduction of Mrs. Wereclaus, and (unfortunately) the only ever instance of the were-elves.
Santa Claws V (1993)
Brings back the characters of Brian and Brittney Pound who have aged significantly in the seven real years between movies. Brittney is now 18, and spends much of her screen time topless. Brian sells insurance. Both have converted to Judaism after their traumatic Christmas experiences and have gathered to spend a quiet Hanukkah together. The only problem is this year, Hanukkah and Christmas fall on the same day, and Weresanta doesn't discriminate creed. The highlight of the movie is when a topless Brittney uses the menorah to set Weresanta on fire.
Santa Claws VI(1995)
Generally considered the turning point in the franchise. Santa and Mrs. Claus are in New York City and while visiting a young boy in the hospital, hit in the spinal chord by a stray bullet from a gang fight, he asks Santa if for Christmas, there can be no more gangs in his neighbourhood. Santa agrees, and come Christmas Eve he and Mrs. Wereclaus wipe out the gangs with their fangs. Many fans were confused and even angered to see Weresanta as a protagonist. The only Santa Claws in which Wereclaus actually saves Christmas.
Santa Claws VII (1996)
Santa Claus finds himself transported back in time by gamma rays or whatever. He arrives in a medieval Bavarian town that is ruled by a cruel burghermeister. Weresanta does battle with him on Christmas Eve and in the morning when Santa presents his ravaged body to the townspeople, the Christmas tradition of gift giving is born. The only Santa Claws in which Weresanta actually invents Christmas. Cancini had his named removed from the project, and almost every one involved considers the events in the movie to be strictly non-canon.
Santa Claws VIII (2000)
Wereclaws returns after a lengthy absence from the screen, only to find himself being hunted by Government agents on Christmas Eve. Can the hunted become the hunter? The scene in which the werereindeer attack a government helicopter surely deserves a place in B-Movie history. Currently the final installment in the Santa Claws series, though there are always rumours that Cancini is trying to revive his baby.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Wanted: One B-Movie Director
Let me pitch you a movie idea. It's called "Santa Claws". It is a Holiday horror movie. I know the title is so obvious, right? So obvious that it must be good. So obvious that it's actually been done, but imdb.com says it belongs to a stupid b-movie that completely wastes the title because what I'm thinking is Santa Claus. As a werewolf. Yes. I know, right?
So you have this average mid-western family with two small children, Older Brother and Little Sister and of course Older Brother has just found out Santa isn't real and is being a dick about it but Little Sister won't have anything to do with it. Also the family is waiting for their oldest son to arrive home, but he is running late and it doesn't look like he'll make it for Christmas Eve dinner because he is a US Marine (these things start writing themselves) and he's been delayed.
And then there's Santa doing his rounds on a clear night with a big full moon when BAM and he's bitten by a werewolf and we have Weresanta and I don't know what the production budget is going to look like so speculating on what he looks like is pointless but you can use your imagination. He looks ridiculous, basically.
This is what I thought about on my way home today. It's perfect and so obvious that I can't believe no one has ever done the Christmas werewolf movie, and finally answered the question, what would happen if Santa Claus were a werewolf?
I don't have an ending in mind really. I'm thinking they kill it with the pure silver star they have on top of the tree because werewolves and silver, right? I don't know anything about them actually. Marine Son would have to jam it into his gun somehow. Or does stabbing work? Like with vampires? I mean as long as it's silver doing the damage, does it matter how it's done? I don't want to offend the werewolf fan community. Those crazy bastards. I'm in love with this idea whatever those nerds think. All I need is a time machine set to 1986 and a one way ticket to Hollywood and I am set. Can you imagine it? By this time people will still be trying to figure out which was the best addition to the franchise, Santa Claws III (look for a young Di Caprio) or Santa Claws VI (controversial as it is the only one in which Weresanta actually saves Christmas).
Horatio Halpern
So you have this average mid-western family with two small children, Older Brother and Little Sister and of course Older Brother has just found out Santa isn't real and is being a dick about it but Little Sister won't have anything to do with it. Also the family is waiting for their oldest son to arrive home, but he is running late and it doesn't look like he'll make it for Christmas Eve dinner because he is a US Marine (these things start writing themselves) and he's been delayed.
And then there's Santa doing his rounds on a clear night with a big full moon when BAM and he's bitten by a werewolf and we have Weresanta and I don't know what the production budget is going to look like so speculating on what he looks like is pointless but you can use your imagination. He looks ridiculous, basically.
This is what I thought about on my way home today. It's perfect and so obvious that I can't believe no one has ever done the Christmas werewolf movie, and finally answered the question, what would happen if Santa Claus were a werewolf?
I don't have an ending in mind really. I'm thinking they kill it with the pure silver star they have on top of the tree because werewolves and silver, right? I don't know anything about them actually. Marine Son would have to jam it into his gun somehow. Or does stabbing work? Like with vampires? I mean as long as it's silver doing the damage, does it matter how it's done? I don't want to offend the werewolf fan community. Those crazy bastards. I'm in love with this idea whatever those nerds think. All I need is a time machine set to 1986 and a one way ticket to Hollywood and I am set. Can you imagine it? By this time people will still be trying to figure out which was the best addition to the franchise, Santa Claws III (look for a young Di Caprio) or Santa Claws VI (controversial as it is the only one in which Weresanta actually saves Christmas).
Horatio Halpern
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
This Preganancy is Bullcrap
I take the streetcar home sometimes when I'm feeling claustrophobic about the subway. Windows that look out on more than just animated charcoal gray tunnel walls are probably the most underrated aspect of the streetcar. I mean, they're slow, and they hold up traffic at the worst times but at least you can see the sun. At least you know that if it breaks down you won't be trapped in the city's dripping underbelly. I like streetcars, ok?
I took the streetcar home today. I have this pet peeve involving public transit. I don't like it when people talk as if they were sitting in their living room and not as if they were sharing a vehicle with a collection of grumpy passengers. I don't like it when people bare their souls or talk about their medical history or their criminal record or anything else I would never ask you about until we were at least on a first name basis. This lady who struck up a conversation with her neighbour about menopause one time, for example. This is an example of inappropriate subway talk.
So I'm on the streetcar today and it is maybe six o'clock at night heading east which means downtown has emptied all at once into this very streetcar but luckily I manage to grab a seat near the back, mainly by keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone with gray hair and I have my book out, On the Road by Kerouac because I figure if I'm ever going to do this road trip thing I might as well read about The Seminal Road Trip, but it turns out I don't like Kerouac as much as I thought I would, or maybe I just don't like the character of Sal Paradise but then they are one and the same right? So anyway I'm busy trying to force myself to read this slim little book that I've been working on for almost a month now when I start picking up snippets of other people's conversations and I try not listen because listening in on other people's conversations is rude, right, but when you do it on a crowded streetcar you are pretty much saying hey fellow passengers I hope you find my life as fascinating as I do because you are about to spend the next half an hour learning all about me. This is the unwritten contract you sign every time you say something on the bus guys.
There were two teenage girls at the very back. Neither could have been more than fourteen, maybe fifteen if their voices told me anything. At first to hear them talk, they liked to talk you see, I wanted to laugh, because it was like they were actively trying to out-white trash each other. These are people you won't often find sitting next to you introduction to cinema studies or your second year philosophy lecture. White trash Toronto is not a place I actively seek out. I'll bike through when I have to but that's about it.
But these girls weren't funny. They were depressing. Their lives, so much of them left to play out, were essentially over. These were not kids who would graduate high school or get degrees or have respectable, steady jobs and invest for retirement or whatever else it is your supposed to do when you have money. I don't want to sound all determinist, oh these poor kids never had a chance it's not their fault whatever they do now. But did they ever really have a real shot?
One of the girls was pregnant. Pregnant! Five months into it and she was just a baby herself, you know? Teenage pregnancy is cruel joke. I can sit here and be all shocked about it because I never knew any one who forgot to keep it wrapped and I grew up in one of those wonderful white neighbourhoods where nothing bad ever happens and you never see police cars parked outside peoples' houses because there is never any reason for them to be here.
It all seems so unfair. Those girls will never get to explore their potential, not while they're so wrapped up in the ephemeral manufactured drama that they seem to think is just another necessary part of life. Don't worry, I know I'm a condescending jackass. Who the hell am I to feel sorry for them. Maybe they'd feel just as sorry for me if they took a look at my life. I don't know. I do know that those girls have no real future beyond failed relationships and unwanted children and dead end careers. That one girl, the pregnant one, how will that child do any better? It's an ugly, ugly circle. She said, referring to the pains that come from carrying a child, "This pregnancy is bullcrap". Why are we capable of having children at such inappropriate ages? Why is it that simply by virtue of being stupid enough to let some punk kid go bareback (don't worry I'll pull out before it happens) she suddenly becomes capable of raising a human life? I feel sorry for that unborn kid more than anything and the more I think about the life he or she will live the more I think that that life has already been set.
Tell me I'm an elitist prick please. Tell me that children born to fourteen year old kids turn out just as well as children from normal families and that your socioeconomic condition has nothing to do with the education you will one day receive or the jail cell you will one day inhabit or not, please. Tell me this please because otherwise what does that say about any of us. We can't just be a product of how much money our parents had lying around while raising us. There's more to it than that. I really hope there is, at least.
Halpern
I took the streetcar home today. I have this pet peeve involving public transit. I don't like it when people talk as if they were sitting in their living room and not as if they were sharing a vehicle with a collection of grumpy passengers. I don't like it when people bare their souls or talk about their medical history or their criminal record or anything else I would never ask you about until we were at least on a first name basis. This lady who struck up a conversation with her neighbour about menopause one time, for example. This is an example of inappropriate subway talk.
So I'm on the streetcar today and it is maybe six o'clock at night heading east which means downtown has emptied all at once into this very streetcar but luckily I manage to grab a seat near the back, mainly by keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone with gray hair and I have my book out, On the Road by Kerouac because I figure if I'm ever going to do this road trip thing I might as well read about The Seminal Road Trip, but it turns out I don't like Kerouac as much as I thought I would, or maybe I just don't like the character of Sal Paradise but then they are one and the same right? So anyway I'm busy trying to force myself to read this slim little book that I've been working on for almost a month now when I start picking up snippets of other people's conversations and I try not listen because listening in on other people's conversations is rude, right, but when you do it on a crowded streetcar you are pretty much saying hey fellow passengers I hope you find my life as fascinating as I do because you are about to spend the next half an hour learning all about me. This is the unwritten contract you sign every time you say something on the bus guys.
There were two teenage girls at the very back. Neither could have been more than fourteen, maybe fifteen if their voices told me anything. At first to hear them talk, they liked to talk you see, I wanted to laugh, because it was like they were actively trying to out-white trash each other. These are people you won't often find sitting next to you introduction to cinema studies or your second year philosophy lecture. White trash Toronto is not a place I actively seek out. I'll bike through when I have to but that's about it.
But these girls weren't funny. They were depressing. Their lives, so much of them left to play out, were essentially over. These were not kids who would graduate high school or get degrees or have respectable, steady jobs and invest for retirement or whatever else it is your supposed to do when you have money. I don't want to sound all determinist, oh these poor kids never had a chance it's not their fault whatever they do now. But did they ever really have a real shot?
One of the girls was pregnant. Pregnant! Five months into it and she was just a baby herself, you know? Teenage pregnancy is cruel joke. I can sit here and be all shocked about it because I never knew any one who forgot to keep it wrapped and I grew up in one of those wonderful white neighbourhoods where nothing bad ever happens and you never see police cars parked outside peoples' houses because there is never any reason for them to be here.
It all seems so unfair. Those girls will never get to explore their potential, not while they're so wrapped up in the ephemeral manufactured drama that they seem to think is just another necessary part of life. Don't worry, I know I'm a condescending jackass. Who the hell am I to feel sorry for them. Maybe they'd feel just as sorry for me if they took a look at my life. I don't know. I do know that those girls have no real future beyond failed relationships and unwanted children and dead end careers. That one girl, the pregnant one, how will that child do any better? It's an ugly, ugly circle. She said, referring to the pains that come from carrying a child, "This pregnancy is bullcrap". Why are we capable of having children at such inappropriate ages? Why is it that simply by virtue of being stupid enough to let some punk kid go bareback (don't worry I'll pull out before it happens) she suddenly becomes capable of raising a human life? I feel sorry for that unborn kid more than anything and the more I think about the life he or she will live the more I think that that life has already been set.
Tell me I'm an elitist prick please. Tell me that children born to fourteen year old kids turn out just as well as children from normal families and that your socioeconomic condition has nothing to do with the education you will one day receive or the jail cell you will one day inhabit or not, please. Tell me this please because otherwise what does that say about any of us. We can't just be a product of how much money our parents had lying around while raising us. There's more to it than that. I really hope there is, at least.
Halpern
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Superman That Hoe
I think I erred slightly in naming this blog because this place is hardly a happy refuge. This blog has very quickly become A Depressing Storehouse for Hopeless Thoughts. Then again what else was this ever going to become except a catalogue for what's wrong with me? I don't know. Enough of that, here's our next item up for auction.
Today is about the ladies. It's about me interacting with ladies, or not interacting with them, the scenario that plays itself out more frequently. I have troubles with the ladies. I am shy, though I try to put up enough bluster to hide it and I'm no good in social situations, though again I like to think I can fake it ok. Talking to women is just a subset of a larger problem, "talking to people in general", but one must narrow the focus if one hopes to make progress.
I went clubbing on Friday for what I will call the first time, though let the record show that I did work at a nightclub very briefly one high school summer, receiving payment in cash of course because a sixteen year old working the tables of a club doesn't quite work. That was an awful job, start at 10 and finish at four in the morning and then blow all the money I earned off tips on cab fare because no self respecting subway would be up that late and what really bothered me was having to tip the taxi driver with my tip money. Help a brother out you know? The only saving grace was that it was not a very successful night club (this was still post-SARS Toronto and people were still iffy on leaving the house) and so one Saturday the owner pulled me aside off the near empty dance floor half way through my shift handed me half a nights pay and sent me on my way with the unspoken understanding that I wasn't needed any more.
That's my night club story. There was going to be more, but this will act as a good life lesson for you. The lesson is never expect anything and you won't get hurt, ever, by anyone.
The clubbing was ok, I downed a can of Red Bull in stupid short amount of time because dumbass, no outside drinks allowed and then we were in the club and it occurred to me finally, that I had no idea how to approach women. There was just this gap in the process that I didn't understand and I couldn't seem to pick up from the guys around me even after that can of pure energy and three or four expensive, but small drinks and I don't know what it is that makes me so inept around people with breasts. My best guess, I don't really know, is that it stems from a hard lack of any real experience with women and that this lack of experience is what is keeping me from gaining any experience which is a stupid feedback loop that is not going to get me anywhere. Well, it's not going to get me anywhere in a club where it's all about the dominant male and taking what you want.
What I couldn't grasp was how the ladies felt about strange dudes approaching them and just getting down to dancing. Does that work? These two guys, and they really made my night, they approached Regina like stealth bombers and then all of a sudden it was like A Night At The Roxbury playing out right in front of me and you have to give these guys high fives just for pulling it off even if they were awful and left Regina weirded out, which is the thing because I am a Bad Dancer who can't seem to form any permanent relationship with the beat, making me just another white guy with rank moves that barely qualify as ironically funny which does not impress women unless they are already your friend in which case it is far too late anyway.
Clubs aren't for me, is the lesson I guess, but it doesn't get me any closer to a woman, which is what I could do with right now if just so I could get that monkey off my back, you know? There are a few monkeys crowding on there actually, and makes for an unattractive hunch. I need to get laid, I think.
Horatio
Today is about the ladies. It's about me interacting with ladies, or not interacting with them, the scenario that plays itself out more frequently. I have troubles with the ladies. I am shy, though I try to put up enough bluster to hide it and I'm no good in social situations, though again I like to think I can fake it ok. Talking to women is just a subset of a larger problem, "talking to people in general", but one must narrow the focus if one hopes to make progress.
I went clubbing on Friday for what I will call the first time, though let the record show that I did work at a nightclub very briefly one high school summer, receiving payment in cash of course because a sixteen year old working the tables of a club doesn't quite work. That was an awful job, start at 10 and finish at four in the morning and then blow all the money I earned off tips on cab fare because no self respecting subway would be up that late and what really bothered me was having to tip the taxi driver with my tip money. Help a brother out you know? The only saving grace was that it was not a very successful night club (this was still post-SARS Toronto and people were still iffy on leaving the house) and so one Saturday the owner pulled me aside off the near empty dance floor half way through my shift handed me half a nights pay and sent me on my way with the unspoken understanding that I wasn't needed any more.
That's my night club story. There was going to be more, but this will act as a good life lesson for you. The lesson is never expect anything and you won't get hurt, ever, by anyone.
The clubbing was ok, I downed a can of Red Bull in stupid short amount of time because dumbass, no outside drinks allowed and then we were in the club and it occurred to me finally, that I had no idea how to approach women. There was just this gap in the process that I didn't understand and I couldn't seem to pick up from the guys around me even after that can of pure energy and three or four expensive, but small drinks and I don't know what it is that makes me so inept around people with breasts. My best guess, I don't really know, is that it stems from a hard lack of any real experience with women and that this lack of experience is what is keeping me from gaining any experience which is a stupid feedback loop that is not going to get me anywhere. Well, it's not going to get me anywhere in a club where it's all about the dominant male and taking what you want.
What I couldn't grasp was how the ladies felt about strange dudes approaching them and just getting down to dancing. Does that work? These two guys, and they really made my night, they approached Regina like stealth bombers and then all of a sudden it was like A Night At The Roxbury playing out right in front of me and you have to give these guys high fives just for pulling it off even if they were awful and left Regina weirded out, which is the thing because I am a Bad Dancer who can't seem to form any permanent relationship with the beat, making me just another white guy with rank moves that barely qualify as ironically funny which does not impress women unless they are already your friend in which case it is far too late anyway.
Clubs aren't for me, is the lesson I guess, but it doesn't get me any closer to a woman, which is what I could do with right now if just so I could get that monkey off my back, you know? There are a few monkeys crowding on there actually, and makes for an unattractive hunch. I need to get laid, I think.
Horatio
Monday, November 19, 2007
My Own Worst Critic
Here's why I'm having trouble writing anything lately, I think. I'm afraid of what the man I will be in one, five, ten, fifty years will think of what I have done now and dismiss it for the juvenile self-absorbed dreck I'm already sure it is. And if I can barely read what I've written five minutes ago without gagging, how can I hold my head up and present it to my future self and say here, this what I am. This is serious. I hate that anything I labour over now will one day be just considered part of the learning experience. Damn it I want to write now.
I want to think that I'm am good at this but there still feels like there is so much I don't know and in the mean time, in the middle of this period of uncertainty I can't push myself to write because I know whatever comes out won't be the modern literary classic I so need it to be. I suppose I should be writing short stories, just pumping them out like they were unloved hillbilly babies just to get the hang of this story telling thing but I can't do it. This paralyzing self-awareness is killing me. When was the last time I really, really actually wrote something? These don't count of course. Blog posts aren't anything. They're just distractions really; a way to tell myself, hey look at least you're writing something. No, no, not really. Not really anything at all.
Things were easier back when I thought I would worm my way onto the op-ed page of some fish wrapper and that would be as far as my words would go. Then I started blogging and I realized that stuffing my opinions down other people's throats was about as far a way from what I wanted to do with my life as I could get. There is nothing fun about saying this is right and this is wrong and you are stupid for disagreeing, stupid. Well, not for me at least, though I'm sure there will never ever be a shortage of people who feel naked if not perched on their soapbox. I am not the fiery spokesman of the middle class, the speaker phone for class consciousness or the clarion bell of common sense. I can not tell it like it is, because I don't think it ever really is in that sense, you know? Shades of gray, and etc.
So my writerly ambitions swung back to fiction, literary fiction, as if I would ever be so gauche as to write anything that would dare to show its cover in a drug store, and I convinced myself that I do indeed have a book inside me, somewhere, hiding. A great book. I would settle for nothing less.
Settle for nothing less. That's the maddening perfectionism that leads to my barren stable of stories. I know that kind of attitude is enough to label me a douche, but that's why I write this incognito; this is not the type of thing you tell people face to face otherwise they look at you funny like you were slightly off your rocker and then give their heads tiny patient shakes and polite laughs and say can't wait to read it.
There's this going on as we speak, NaNoWriMo, maybe you heard, where people lock themselves in a room with a typewriter for the month of November and just write. Just write and write and write and push out a cute 50,000 word novel in the space of just one month. The novels are all crap of course, but that's hardly the point. The point is to force yourself to stop editing every sentence twice before it hits the page and just let loose and go crazy all over the keyboard. Burn that mother up. I should have done it. They scheduled it during one of the worst months of the school year for me, but that wouldn't have mattered; I barely do any work anyway. I'm just a big pussy. I'm scared of what 50,000 words would look like. 50,000 of my words all spread over that Word document like honey on bread.
Something I noticed about blogging: it's so much more enjoyable when you do it for yourself and no one else. When you start writing with an eye towards, "what do people want to see?", that's when you run in to trouble. Be true to yourself right? When you write with an audience in mind it can only restrict you. Maybe that's what you want though? Maybe you want people to actually read your words? Maybe you want to make a few cents off your google ads? I remember when I first started blogging I was pretty sure it would be a short road to blogger famedom and I wrote like I was Dave Barry's unacknowledged bastard son all saccharine pop culture inoffensive punchline fun and that didn't work and I read back now and I just feel slightly embarrassed that there was ever a time I could confidently sign my name to the end of those posts. Now I'm all inaccessible like a Chinese menu and I love it. It is so freeing. So what if nobody reads this, it's the Internet man. It's a big place, and I think there's more than enough space for me to tuck away and be happy. Artistic integrity, and etc.
Horatio Halpern
I want to think that I'm am good at this but there still feels like there is so much I don't know and in the mean time, in the middle of this period of uncertainty I can't push myself to write because I know whatever comes out won't be the modern literary classic I so need it to be. I suppose I should be writing short stories, just pumping them out like they were unloved hillbilly babies just to get the hang of this story telling thing but I can't do it. This paralyzing self-awareness is killing me. When was the last time I really, really actually wrote something? These don't count of course. Blog posts aren't anything. They're just distractions really; a way to tell myself, hey look at least you're writing something. No, no, not really. Not really anything at all.
Things were easier back when I thought I would worm my way onto the op-ed page of some fish wrapper and that would be as far as my words would go. Then I started blogging and I realized that stuffing my opinions down other people's throats was about as far a way from what I wanted to do with my life as I could get. There is nothing fun about saying this is right and this is wrong and you are stupid for disagreeing, stupid. Well, not for me at least, though I'm sure there will never ever be a shortage of people who feel naked if not perched on their soapbox. I am not the fiery spokesman of the middle class, the speaker phone for class consciousness or the clarion bell of common sense. I can not tell it like it is, because I don't think it ever really is in that sense, you know? Shades of gray, and etc.
So my writerly ambitions swung back to fiction, literary fiction, as if I would ever be so gauche as to write anything that would dare to show its cover in a drug store, and I convinced myself that I do indeed have a book inside me, somewhere, hiding. A great book. I would settle for nothing less.
Settle for nothing less. That's the maddening perfectionism that leads to my barren stable of stories. I know that kind of attitude is enough to label me a douche, but that's why I write this incognito; this is not the type of thing you tell people face to face otherwise they look at you funny like you were slightly off your rocker and then give their heads tiny patient shakes and polite laughs and say can't wait to read it.
There's this going on as we speak, NaNoWriMo, maybe you heard, where people lock themselves in a room with a typewriter for the month of November and just write. Just write and write and write and push out a cute 50,000 word novel in the space of just one month. The novels are all crap of course, but that's hardly the point. The point is to force yourself to stop editing every sentence twice before it hits the page and just let loose and go crazy all over the keyboard. Burn that mother up. I should have done it. They scheduled it during one of the worst months of the school year for me, but that wouldn't have mattered; I barely do any work anyway. I'm just a big pussy. I'm scared of what 50,000 words would look like. 50,000 of my words all spread over that Word document like honey on bread.
Something I noticed about blogging: it's so much more enjoyable when you do it for yourself and no one else. When you start writing with an eye towards, "what do people want to see?", that's when you run in to trouble. Be true to yourself right? When you write with an audience in mind it can only restrict you. Maybe that's what you want though? Maybe you want people to actually read your words? Maybe you want to make a few cents off your google ads? I remember when I first started blogging I was pretty sure it would be a short road to blogger famedom and I wrote like I was Dave Barry's unacknowledged bastard son all saccharine pop culture inoffensive punchline fun and that didn't work and I read back now and I just feel slightly embarrassed that there was ever a time I could confidently sign my name to the end of those posts. Now I'm all inaccessible like a Chinese menu and I love it. It is so freeing. So what if nobody reads this, it's the Internet man. It's a big place, and I think there's more than enough space for me to tuck away and be happy. Artistic integrity, and etc.
Horatio Halpern
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Why Do Today When Hey, You Don't Know Me
I have a serious problem. I procrastinate, and it worries me because I do it chronically and almost pathologically. I can't not procrastinate, and it is scary. I'll assume this is what it's like to use, because I honestly feel like I'm not in control here. I know the consequences of putting off what is due tomorrow, I know that things would be so much easier if I could open a book and just get down and dirty with it earlier than the night before but I just can't. I should be writing an essay right now, and instead I'm here which makes Blogger an enabler I guess but it also makes me a tool.
Ugh, I wanted to make a joke about procrastinator's anonymous, you know "procrastinator's anonymous: we'll meet later" or something but actually funny so I turned to Google but it turns out these groups actually exist. I don't not do because I'm depressed, I don't think, though self-diagnosing depression does sound sketchy, but even still I don't know why I do it, all I really know is that whenever something needs to be done, there is an invisible wall that stands between me and it, and that wall only seems to get stronger and stronger and taller and taller until I'm left sitting here thinking what's the point at all.
I know why it is important to do this essay. Not doing cannot be considered an option. I learned that last year and my GPA hasn't forgiven me yet. Last year was a waste, but I still thought I had learned some valuable lessons, most of them being "Never again". But here I am. I hear some people procrastinate because they are perfectionists. I may have made that up.
I'm good at wasting time is one of the problems. Between computer games (EA's hockey games are my weakness) and the internet I can sink ungodly hours into the most unproductive crap. There's this group on Facebook called "I stay up late all night and I don't do anything productive" which is me in a nutshell. This person on the internet is advising cutting myself off from video games altogether, but that seems drastic. This isn't cigarettes. Moderation must come in somewhere, right?
Or maybe I have no idea what moderation means. Maybe it would be better, quicker to just hide my games out of sight, out if mind. Maaaaan. What do I do. This procrastination is ruining my grades, and weighing me down under so much stress I do not need. My GPA is already shot, and second year is shaping up to be no better than first.
A deeper question that I shouldn't even be talking about is why am I even school? Motivation is in play here, mainly that I don't have much to push me through. I'm not convinced a bachelors in what, I don't even know that yet, is what I need most right now.
Hey! This is no fun. Goodnight.
H.
Ugh, I wanted to make a joke about procrastinator's anonymous, you know "procrastinator's anonymous: we'll meet later" or something but actually funny so I turned to Google but it turns out these groups actually exist. I don't not do because I'm depressed, I don't think, though self-diagnosing depression does sound sketchy, but even still I don't know why I do it, all I really know is that whenever something needs to be done, there is an invisible wall that stands between me and it, and that wall only seems to get stronger and stronger and taller and taller until I'm left sitting here thinking what's the point at all.
I know why it is important to do this essay. Not doing cannot be considered an option. I learned that last year and my GPA hasn't forgiven me yet. Last year was a waste, but I still thought I had learned some valuable lessons, most of them being "Never again". But here I am. I hear some people procrastinate because they are perfectionists. I may have made that up.
I'm good at wasting time is one of the problems. Between computer games (EA's hockey games are my weakness) and the internet I can sink ungodly hours into the most unproductive crap. There's this group on Facebook called "I stay up late all night and I don't do anything productive" which is me in a nutshell. This person on the internet is advising cutting myself off from video games altogether, but that seems drastic. This isn't cigarettes. Moderation must come in somewhere, right?
Or maybe I have no idea what moderation means. Maybe it would be better, quicker to just hide my games out of sight, out if mind. Maaaaan. What do I do. This procrastination is ruining my grades, and weighing me down under so much stress I do not need. My GPA is already shot, and second year is shaping up to be no better than first.
A deeper question that I shouldn't even be talking about is why am I even school? Motivation is in play here, mainly that I don't have much to push me through. I'm not convinced a bachelors in what, I don't even know that yet, is what I need most right now.
Hey! This is no fun. Goodnight.
H.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
It's Raining in Amsterdam
I don't know what it's like to be a teaching assistant. It looks like a pretty crappy job. Sorry TAs, but it does. I don't know anything about the students around me, but I don't think there would be a better way to intimately acquaint myself with them then by reading the essays they give to you. You have a scary window into your students. You look inside of their heads and for every time that you see something that re-affirms your faith in humanity, there must be three or four that make you wonder whether the count down to the end of the world will be counted in days and not decades. Not every essay can sparkle with wit and intelligence and a charming insouciance like mine, I know, I know.
I also respect your decision to only give me a 75% because if you knew the depths of hell I had to plumb to finish that damn fish wrapper you would have probably reduced the grade just cuz. It was a flawed essay. I did not feel satisfied at any point while writing it, which is a worrying feeling but I find, even more distressingly sometimes that when I write something that I think is only worthy of being coughed up by a diseased cat, other people like it more than I think they have any right to and this worries me because it downgrades my expectations of people and of myself and I know that you are always your harshest critic and I know a lot of people are always aw shucks it isn't very good you don't have to say that when really all they want you to do is keep kissing their ass some more but with me when I say no way you really think it's good it's because I really do think I have just crapped up a bunch of words and this time no way any one is going to dig it and it definitely isn't fishing for compliments because I take compliments like punches to the gut and they just make me feel uncomfortable and yeah, people who can't take a compliment do blow but it's even worse when you can't give someone a compliment without feeling like a big perv who's about to be hauled away for sexual harassment because I really like what you did with your hair it looks really tasty I just want to smell it and touch it is that ok? While reading that last line ideally you should have been mouth breathing and pushing up your glasses. I guess I didn't make that clear.
Man speaking of essays there's this other one due in two days and it's going to prove a lot harder because it's supposed to be ten pages minimum and I have to base it off a book that I should have started reading like a month ago but of course I didn't do that because only friggin keeners get a head start like that and if I die tomorrow I will die knowing that nobody ever confused me for being a keener while at university, thank you very much. Keeners. Maybe you call them brown-nosers but I'm not crazy about that term. I think keeners and I think big jerks with big white smiles and pastel sweater vests and disgusting chipper attitudes and book bags and the really with it ones probably carry their ivory iBook's with them every where they go and always do the assigned reading at least two days in advance and have their essays finished at least a week early so they can send it to the TA for spell checking and don't hesitate to go to the office hours when they have a question because that is the kind of person they are who don't think twice about raising their hand in lecture to ask really deep and insightful questions that they probably spent hours preparing back in rez so that they can show the professor just how much they understand the material and so they can have their secret orgasm when the professor stops and says, that's a really good question except what's the point because the professor doesn't even know who you are unless you have front row season tickets and it just occurred to me that the front row of every lecture ever is probably composed entirely of keeners and maybe the occasional cool dude who showed up late and couldn't find anywhere else to sit because normally cool people sit farther back so that if the urge strikes them they can just fall asleep, not that keeners would know anything about that because I'm pretty sure they all go to bed at 10 so that they can wake up bright and early so that they can check on their stocks and eat halved grapefruits. God dammit.
That was like pure unadulterated jealousy right there. I just know if I did half of those things my GPA would do happy jig on its way out of the dog pit because right now the only way my GPA could be lower was if I never did any of my work, as opposed to my current policy of only doing most of my work except for the ones that are stupid or sometimes the really hard ones but at least I have the good sense to feel really guilty and distraught about it like I just ran over your cat or something.
I just ran over your cat. But it's not my fault. I'm still learning how to drive. Nineteen young and still can't drive, I know, Horatio, you are thinking, I am starting to question your status as Ladies Man Exra -Ordinaire.
Question for you dear reader, when you learned to drive, did you do it standard? I'm guessing not, unless you're some kind of fruity European, but if you did, do you sometimes lie awake at night and wonder why you didn't just be a normal person and find yourself an automatic beauty rather than trying to ride that damn pole like you were a dowdy stripper on her first day? My parents got together nineteen years ago and made a conscious decision to spite me by both going in for standard models. They save gas and whatever but they are hella hard to start. You have to release the clutch and push down on the gas in some kind of complex mating dance that my clumsy feet have yet to master, and it's funny when you're in a car and the bozo next to you stalls his car in the middle of the road but it really loses it comedic effect when it is you who has stalled the car for what you would know was the 26th time if you hadn't stopped counting after the 14th conk out and your dad is sitting in the passenger seat a storm of confused, patient anger because you would think that the law of averages or something would dictate that I would figure it out after enough attempts, but I guess Stats never met me huh.
Hey I could keep this up all night. It's really easy once you get into it and then hit cruise control and the words just come out all automatic like rat tat tat, boom boom boom, let's see how far he can go without a period. There are period shortages in Africa man. What do you think all the stress and guns in Darfur is about? Just doing my part to save the planet, dogg.
H. Halpern
I also respect your decision to only give me a 75% because if you knew the depths of hell I had to plumb to finish that damn fish wrapper you would have probably reduced the grade just cuz. It was a flawed essay. I did not feel satisfied at any point while writing it, which is a worrying feeling but I find, even more distressingly sometimes that when I write something that I think is only worthy of being coughed up by a diseased cat, other people like it more than I think they have any right to and this worries me because it downgrades my expectations of people and of myself and I know that you are always your harshest critic and I know a lot of people are always aw shucks it isn't very good you don't have to say that when really all they want you to do is keep kissing their ass some more but with me when I say no way you really think it's good it's because I really do think I have just crapped up a bunch of words and this time no way any one is going to dig it and it definitely isn't fishing for compliments because I take compliments like punches to the gut and they just make me feel uncomfortable and yeah, people who can't take a compliment do blow but it's even worse when you can't give someone a compliment without feeling like a big perv who's about to be hauled away for sexual harassment because I really like what you did with your hair it looks really tasty I just want to smell it and touch it is that ok? While reading that last line ideally you should have been mouth breathing and pushing up your glasses. I guess I didn't make that clear.
Man speaking of essays there's this other one due in two days and it's going to prove a lot harder because it's supposed to be ten pages minimum and I have to base it off a book that I should have started reading like a month ago but of course I didn't do that because only friggin keeners get a head start like that and if I die tomorrow I will die knowing that nobody ever confused me for being a keener while at university, thank you very much. Keeners. Maybe you call them brown-nosers but I'm not crazy about that term. I think keeners and I think big jerks with big white smiles and pastel sweater vests and disgusting chipper attitudes and book bags and the really with it ones probably carry their ivory iBook's with them every where they go and always do the assigned reading at least two days in advance and have their essays finished at least a week early so they can send it to the TA for spell checking and don't hesitate to go to the office hours when they have a question because that is the kind of person they are who don't think twice about raising their hand in lecture to ask really deep and insightful questions that they probably spent hours preparing back in rez so that they can show the professor just how much they understand the material and so they can have their secret orgasm when the professor stops and says, that's a really good question except what's the point because the professor doesn't even know who you are unless you have front row season tickets and it just occurred to me that the front row of every lecture ever is probably composed entirely of keeners and maybe the occasional cool dude who showed up late and couldn't find anywhere else to sit because normally cool people sit farther back so that if the urge strikes them they can just fall asleep, not that keeners would know anything about that because I'm pretty sure they all go to bed at 10 so that they can wake up bright and early so that they can check on their stocks and eat halved grapefruits. God dammit.
That was like pure unadulterated jealousy right there. I just know if I did half of those things my GPA would do happy jig on its way out of the dog pit because right now the only way my GPA could be lower was if I never did any of my work, as opposed to my current policy of only doing most of my work except for the ones that are stupid or sometimes the really hard ones but at least I have the good sense to feel really guilty and distraught about it like I just ran over your cat or something.
I just ran over your cat. But it's not my fault. I'm still learning how to drive. Nineteen young and still can't drive, I know, Horatio, you are thinking, I am starting to question your status as Ladies Man Exra -Ordinaire.
Question for you dear reader, when you learned to drive, did you do it standard? I'm guessing not, unless you're some kind of fruity European, but if you did, do you sometimes lie awake at night and wonder why you didn't just be a normal person and find yourself an automatic beauty rather than trying to ride that damn pole like you were a dowdy stripper on her first day? My parents got together nineteen years ago and made a conscious decision to spite me by both going in for standard models. They save gas and whatever but they are hella hard to start. You have to release the clutch and push down on the gas in some kind of complex mating dance that my clumsy feet have yet to master, and it's funny when you're in a car and the bozo next to you stalls his car in the middle of the road but it really loses it comedic effect when it is you who has stalled the car for what you would know was the 26th time if you hadn't stopped counting after the 14th conk out and your dad is sitting in the passenger seat a storm of confused, patient anger because you would think that the law of averages or something would dictate that I would figure it out after enough attempts, but I guess Stats never met me huh.
Hey I could keep this up all night. It's really easy once you get into it and then hit cruise control and the words just come out all automatic like rat tat tat, boom boom boom, let's see how far he can go without a period. There are period shortages in Africa man. What do you think all the stress and guns in Darfur is about? Just doing my part to save the planet, dogg.
H. Halpern
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Sleeping on Streetcars
I dozed off on the streetcar today. You know how it is. Your head begins to nod as your eyelids grow heavier and heavier and the world recedes around you and you fall so willingly into sleep inside the rattling tin can that inches so slowly forward. I didn't want to take the subway. The subway is depressing and claustrophobic, and full of sad, frowny faced people who would all rather be driving somewhere than having to share a worn and fraying seat with a smelly man of questionable hygiene habits all the while being shut off from the bitter, beautiful November sunlight that just begs for long walks through the park. So I took the streetcar home.
I was reading Heart of Darkness. Conrad, mod classic, Africa etc. I was a few pages from finishing when my ten ton eyelids began drooping. I've been going to lectures long enough to know that fighting the fatigue is equal parts useless and futile. The streetcar wasn't crowded - they're no fun when they are - and I couldn't think of a reason to deny my body the sleep I had been depriving it.
I didn't sleep much last night. And when I woke up I was hung over. Not a good-lord-I'll-never-drink-again-so-help-me-god hang over thanks, I don't get those. The trick is to drink lots of water before you black out. That's my secret, though I'm sure you could find more knowledgeable boozehounds to get drinking tips from because what I don't know about alcohol could fill a German brewery. We were celebrating Regina's birthday and there is only one appropriate way to celebrate a nineteenth birthday. You know how it is.
Yeah, you know how it is.
Horatio
I was reading Heart of Darkness. Conrad, mod classic, Africa etc. I was a few pages from finishing when my ten ton eyelids began drooping. I've been going to lectures long enough to know that fighting the fatigue is equal parts useless and futile. The streetcar wasn't crowded - they're no fun when they are - and I couldn't think of a reason to deny my body the sleep I had been depriving it.
I didn't sleep much last night. And when I woke up I was hung over. Not a good-lord-I'll-never-drink-again-so-help-me-god hang over thanks, I don't get those. The trick is to drink lots of water before you black out. That's my secret, though I'm sure you could find more knowledgeable boozehounds to get drinking tips from because what I don't know about alcohol could fill a German brewery. We were celebrating Regina's birthday and there is only one appropriate way to celebrate a nineteenth birthday. You know how it is.
Yeah, you know how it is.
Horatio
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Red Bull and the Adrenaline of Desperation
I'm hopped up on red bull and the desperation adrenaline that only comes from procrastination. It's a sweet rush. That's how I get high. Screw drugs. I procrastinate. There's nothing like it. Yeah there's guilt sometimes but if you're pro enough you can ignore that; shunt it to the side and just enjoy the moment. Leaving things to the last minute is not wise or advisable or desirable but it's also very, very easy to do. Why am I even writing this? I have 1500 words to write on American slavery.
1500 hundred words is chump change. Maybe that was a big number in high school, once a upon a time, but in second year the prof says 1500 word essay and it's automatically on lowest priority. Double spaced and formatted that works out to what, three, four pages? The only problem you run into with these essays is having too much to say. That's not usually my problem though. I don't bullshit. It's not in me to do it. It doesn't matter what I write, it always feels bare bones, like I squeeze the very essence of what I'm trying to say into as few words as possible. It's actually frustrating. I know concise is good. That's what they say always say. Say what you mean in as few words as possible. I just feel like I take that to the extreme. It's one reason why writing a novel seems so daunting. 100,000 words? Where would I ever find them all? I don't think my mind has enough dark recesses to mine in order to pull that out.
No, I'm being pessimistic. I have a book in me somewhere. When the time is right. It will be a svelte book no doubt. Short and to the point, whatever the point is. Knowing me there won't be a point. No answers, just more and more questions. I don't have answers is another problem I have. How can you write if you don't have something you are trying to say? What's the point? I think whatever I do write will be purposefully pointless, vague and ambiguous. No answers. Just questions.
Questions. How can America be the country that fought hardest for liberty and freedom and apple pie, yet also be the country that exploited slavery to its fullest potential? What's the deal here? This guy Morgan thinks he has the answer. The US didn't start off hoarding blacks. At first it was an uneasy mix of poor English immigrants working as indentured servants and a scattering of blacks. The English servants gained their freedom eventually after working enough years but they didn't have much to do after that because all the prime land had already been taken so many of them turned to vagrancy and there was a growing discontent among the lower class. The planter elites, traditionally distrustful of landless labourers already, grew even more wary of them. By this time though, and happy coincidence it was, the mortality rate of slaves in the colonies had dropped and African investments had never looked better. Suddenly everybody was buying slaves coupled with further western expansion meant the idle labourers turned themselves into small yeoman farmers, and productive members of society. Thanks to cheap black slaves, there were no longer appreciable numbers of poor whites, and large and small planters alike could unite to spread the ideas of freedom and liberty for all. For all those with land at least.
That's the argument. I don't know when this turned into a history lesson. Is it right? Is it wrong? I think it's a decent argument. It does seem designed to absolve Americans of any major intentional complicity in slavery by dressing the move to black slaves as pure economics, a decision motivated by dollar signs and not prejudice towards people of different skin colour. He has a point though. Prior to say, 1650, transporting slaves to the 13 colonies was financially unfeasible. Most would die before they ever made it that far, and the Caribbean with its brutal sugar cane harvest and massive turn over was much closer, and therefore much more profitable for early slave traders. Once life expectancy of slaves rose, it became tenable to transport more and more blacks north, and the demand only kept increasing. It's around 1660 that you start to see laws passed with the express intention of placing a dividing line between blacks and whites.
I should take this and turn it into an essay now. You've been helpful as a sounding board though. I'm not sure where I'm going with this but it is now past midnight and I wouldn't mind catching a couple hours of sleep tonight. I know, I know, I'm spoiled.
H.H
1500 hundred words is chump change. Maybe that was a big number in high school, once a upon a time, but in second year the prof says 1500 word essay and it's automatically on lowest priority. Double spaced and formatted that works out to what, three, four pages? The only problem you run into with these essays is having too much to say. That's not usually my problem though. I don't bullshit. It's not in me to do it. It doesn't matter what I write, it always feels bare bones, like I squeeze the very essence of what I'm trying to say into as few words as possible. It's actually frustrating. I know concise is good. That's what they say always say. Say what you mean in as few words as possible. I just feel like I take that to the extreme. It's one reason why writing a novel seems so daunting. 100,000 words? Where would I ever find them all? I don't think my mind has enough dark recesses to mine in order to pull that out.
No, I'm being pessimistic. I have a book in me somewhere. When the time is right. It will be a svelte book no doubt. Short and to the point, whatever the point is. Knowing me there won't be a point. No answers, just more and more questions. I don't have answers is another problem I have. How can you write if you don't have something you are trying to say? What's the point? I think whatever I do write will be purposefully pointless, vague and ambiguous. No answers. Just questions.
Questions. How can America be the country that fought hardest for liberty and freedom and apple pie, yet also be the country that exploited slavery to its fullest potential? What's the deal here? This guy Morgan thinks he has the answer. The US didn't start off hoarding blacks. At first it was an uneasy mix of poor English immigrants working as indentured servants and a scattering of blacks. The English servants gained their freedom eventually after working enough years but they didn't have much to do after that because all the prime land had already been taken so many of them turned to vagrancy and there was a growing discontent among the lower class. The planter elites, traditionally distrustful of landless labourers already, grew even more wary of them. By this time though, and happy coincidence it was, the mortality rate of slaves in the colonies had dropped and African investments had never looked better. Suddenly everybody was buying slaves coupled with further western expansion meant the idle labourers turned themselves into small yeoman farmers, and productive members of society. Thanks to cheap black slaves, there were no longer appreciable numbers of poor whites, and large and small planters alike could unite to spread the ideas of freedom and liberty for all. For all those with land at least.
That's the argument. I don't know when this turned into a history lesson. Is it right? Is it wrong? I think it's a decent argument. It does seem designed to absolve Americans of any major intentional complicity in slavery by dressing the move to black slaves as pure economics, a decision motivated by dollar signs and not prejudice towards people of different skin colour. He has a point though. Prior to say, 1650, transporting slaves to the 13 colonies was financially unfeasible. Most would die before they ever made it that far, and the Caribbean with its brutal sugar cane harvest and massive turn over was much closer, and therefore much more profitable for early slave traders. Once life expectancy of slaves rose, it became tenable to transport more and more blacks north, and the demand only kept increasing. It's around 1660 that you start to see laws passed with the express intention of placing a dividing line between blacks and whites.
I should take this and turn it into an essay now. You've been helpful as a sounding board though. I'm not sure where I'm going with this but it is now past midnight and I wouldn't mind catching a couple hours of sleep tonight. I know, I know, I'm spoiled.
H.H
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
A Note On the URL
I was going to set the URL to homelessthoughts.blogspot.com but that was taken, by a homeless woman no less and it made me realise that yeah she probably needs it more than I do, even if she hasn't updated in two years, whatever. Thanks homeless lady for saving me from a tactless title.
You Are On the Forefront of the Revoltution
I have this other blog somewhere out there on the Internet and it was to be my refuge of anonymity where I could write whatever and not worry about who was reading what. I don't like to open up. I don't know why. Exposing myself to people I know seems dangerous. What would people think if they saw into me? Let's not go there please. That's why what I write always feels restrained. I can't write that. What would my friends think? I couldn't dare to let the people around me to actually see inside me.
I don't care what strangers think. That's why I started on blogger. I can open up to people I don't know, as long as that's what they are, and that's what they stay. When they transcend that, become, and I never really even thought this was a possibility, become regular readers, with back and forth between us and then it just becomes another role I have to conform to. Can't whine too much, can't change their opinion of me.
The problem with that first blog, now on hiatus, was that while it was to be private internet retreat, it was also plastered with my name. Hidden in plain sight. If you google my name, my real name (Horatio Halpern turns up nothing, yet) that blog turns up tops. It screams to be found and I was in denial about that for a while until Sitemeter returned chilling news. My blog was getting regular hits from my mom's office.
I had been discovered by the last person I would ever want reading my blog. I try to maintain a casual aloofness around her, you know? No more information than is ever necessary, and that system worked, I think. But now she has picked up my virtual diary and is rifling through it. There is nothing truly incriminating on there - my brutal self-censor took control months ago, but the truth is she has access to information I would not have willfully handed over to her.
Yes, a chilling lesson on the perils of privacy on the internet. This blog is how I correct that.
The first blog was too closely tied to me, and it hindered my ability to free my mind of its clutter. I'm liking this happy refuge already. These are things that would never have shown up on blog #1. I can't show weakness, can't acknowledge to the people I know that I have problems, that sometimes I need help. That's why I'm here.
I don't know why you are here. I'm not even sure you are here. I would almost (almost) prefer that you weren't. But this is the Internet! So what can I do. Read on dear reader, my deer eater, see what drives Horatio Halpern, what scares him, what makes him laugh and what makes him angry.
We're off to a good start, I think.
Horatio
I don't care what strangers think. That's why I started on blogger. I can open up to people I don't know, as long as that's what they are, and that's what they stay. When they transcend that, become, and I never really even thought this was a possibility, become regular readers, with back and forth between us and then it just becomes another role I have to conform to. Can't whine too much, can't change their opinion of me.
The problem with that first blog, now on hiatus, was that while it was to be private internet retreat, it was also plastered with my name. Hidden in plain sight. If you google my name, my real name (Horatio Halpern turns up nothing, yet) that blog turns up tops. It screams to be found and I was in denial about that for a while until Sitemeter returned chilling news. My blog was getting regular hits from my mom's office.
I had been discovered by the last person I would ever want reading my blog. I try to maintain a casual aloofness around her, you know? No more information than is ever necessary, and that system worked, I think. But now she has picked up my virtual diary and is rifling through it. There is nothing truly incriminating on there - my brutal self-censor took control months ago, but the truth is she has access to information I would not have willfully handed over to her.
Yes, a chilling lesson on the perils of privacy on the internet. This blog is how I correct that.
The first blog was too closely tied to me, and it hindered my ability to free my mind of its clutter. I'm liking this happy refuge already. These are things that would never have shown up on blog #1. I can't show weakness, can't acknowledge to the people I know that I have problems, that sometimes I need help. That's why I'm here.
I don't know why you are here. I'm not even sure you are here. I would almost (almost) prefer that you weren't. But this is the Internet! So what can I do. Read on dear reader, my deer eater, see what drives Horatio Halpern, what scares him, what makes him laugh and what makes him angry.
We're off to a good start, I think.
Horatio
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