Moe:
Piketty's problem is that, while he uses data to demolish the mythology of his own profession, he is far too weak a sociologist and historian to really do what he wants to do. He makes bush-league mistakes in his retelling of American history after World War II. In fact, if he simply pretended the United States never existed he would have done better than he did. His knowledge of the French I trust implicitly; his knowledge of the United States is almost undergrad level. And he forgets that the Americans colonized their way West when he says that the United States was never an imperial power. That burns me to my core, Moe. It really does.
If you're a numbers guy and you're okay with ignoring Piketty's Ameri-myopia you will get a lot out of Piketty. I am not a numbers guy and I admire the United States almost as much as I admire Quebec and more than I admire Mexico (which is a country I have learned to have much respect for), so neither-nor is very good for me. I'm sure somebody could get a use out of it and it definitely exposes the dogmatism of contemporary economics to withering (and most likely fatal) blows. Other than that, it's...tolerable. The Ecohistorian-Signal remains above Gotham awaiting another daring enough to answer its call. Man, that went off the rails quickly. Did that run off the rails quickly? Easy there, Short-Change Hero.
*ahem*
29-May-2014
Fuck the RCMP. Seriously. Fuck them. I always knew that they were too cowardly to seriously devote resources to the protection of Indian women (many of whom have to resort to hitchhiking to reach our vaunted "free" health care system, a situation which tends to increase your chances of becoming a statistic that haunts me for as long as I live here). I already was aware of their undeclared war on the Indians and certainly knew that it was corrupt and rotten and the worst sort of fount for the filth that is ersatz Canadiana. I already knew that. But then they pulled the rug out from under Girlfriend's feet. Cowardly, corrupt, frivolous, vicious - and now hilariously incapable of the same sorting 1st graders perform when handing out Valentines.
So, Girlfriend shares a first name with another person on the interview list for some mediocre but modestly well-paying busy-work. To get on this list requires contortions of such a level that the entire Tea Party Express of Dallas, Texas came in unison upon hearing its appalling name. The name of this list is FSWEP. It stands for Fucking Shit, We don't Even Pretend to Know. We can communicate with this word, Effswep. It says everything about your status in Newtown.
"Where do you work, mate?"
"Ah, [ACRONYM]"
"Nice! How'd you land that?"
"...FSWEP..."
*silence*
Effswep means that you are just barely clinging on to the mangy fur of the federal state. You can be shaken off with a mere flick of the Finance Minister's pen. That fucking pen is the sharpest thing in this town. Robespierre would be proud. All that brutality to say that FSWEP is your ticket to having a day that doesn't begin and end with "how can I help you?" Girlfriend had hold of that musty yak and had been told about a week ago that she had indeed got the job. Today, the RCMP writes to inform Girlfriend that they had emailed the wrong person and that she did not, in fact, have the job. You may recognize this as being pretty fucking shitty, but the Professional Canadian at the RCMP didn't even bother to proofread the damn letter. Girlfriend calls me while I'm on my way to work and tells me the news. Licking fucking shit, says I, and I proceed to fail at Warehouse with an awe-inspiring power. It doesn't take much mental strength to do this job but I did not have it. Between simple rage, planning my next moves, forcefully not listening to unwanted suggestions, and trying to examine and understand this rage I didn't have much room left. I just raced home at dinner. I forget literally the rest of today. Hm. Fuck.
By Poseidon's Thundering Salty Bunghole I will stay intact. Writing was a bit hard even though GIrlfriend and I recovered by daydreaming about getting out of Newtown, most likely by moving to Partytown. It's in another nation and that's a breath I really need. I am about 60% sure this will mean that I start smoking cigarettes but thinking about leaving Newtown and then Canada felt good. I got a really warm fuzzy feeling about spending a lot more time in the United States, especially in the Rust Belt. I like to imagine burning my Canadian passport, burning the Canadian flag, boarding a plane, and being done with it. No more living next to a mangly yak and a deranged pen-wielding barber-metaphor oh God it's a metaphor trainwreck Sweeeezzzzzzzzzzzzcccccccccchhhhhhhhhh...plop. Point is, I can't wait to not feel compromised all the time. Numbers like the 1000 Indian women who have disappeared and been forgotten that the RCMP recently admitted to and then decided to do nothing about.
I have a newspaper clipping taped to my compooper. It reads:
"Had he just followed a rabbit down a white hole? To apply even his own logic to what he says is like reasoning with a fart"
This is how I feel about Canada. I think I got that clipping out of a British paper (the Times?) while on my way into Canada from Malta. How fitting that the bitch that birthed this abomination would send along some instructions now that her kid started to really ruin shit. Thanks, guys. There's a poetry in going between Malta, a country which took its independence from Britain as an opportunity to flourish and develop to Canada, a country which took its independence from Britain as an opportunity to torture small animals and collect rocks in a bathtub through Her Majesty's Royal Birthing Chamber itself. Fuck, that was gross. Bad structure, bad execution. That was the Dan Quayle of bad wordliness. Well, shit. Maybe as I write I'll get a bit better.
Weather is chilly shortsleeves. Tomorrow I think I am going out for some beer so I may not have much to say. But I'll lump it in to Saturday or something. Also, the Detroit Tigers beat Oakland 5-4 and the Canadiens are dead. The latter news is awesome because Canada always has an ersatz-pout about it which is almost comically stupid (lots of conspiracies about the NHL wanting to keep the Cup in America, because America as a state needs that specific chalice and has no other culinary, literary, social, musical, athletic, scientific, technical, or military achievements to lean on and cannot possibly sustain itself without the Stanley Fucking Cup). It makes me so happy that Canada won't have the Stanley Cup again. I want either Chicago to win for Paul or LA to win because Canada does extra-pouts about a place with a famous summer winning a "winter" game. Do I sound utterly insufferable yet? Miguel Cabrera put two runs in though, and my friend told me to watch that guy. I've always liked listening to baseball - now I'm going to try to be a fan.
I can do it!
I'm so glad this is anonymous.
The Diary of Mr. Chimney
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
30-May-2014
My bus pass runs out soon. Goodbye, $130! Oooh, and rent and phone bill and A/C fees: $680 (I live with Girlfriend who pays rent too - I couldn't afford this without her)! And weed. And I can afford it all. Too bad that doesn't make me feel any better. Woohoo, temporary ticket to the Below-Average Bowlers' League.It sounds so great that I can't even afford the Shitmobile, Official Medium-Term enrollment in a life full of pinching pennies, half-baked vacations, and lame living spaces. I'm so grateful to look down the barrel of a life of making it. What joy. If I channel the cartoon Daria any harder your monitor will develop a pair of round black glasses and stare at you unblinking until you stop reading this.
I also am happy to report that the Tigers are up 6-3 at the top of the ninth. When I did it on my own terms, sports suddenly became more interesting. I have vowed to only be interested in baseball until I can confirm that I am not, in fact, a raging douchebag. There is an immediate and horrible association between sport and douchery in my mind. Whenever anyone tries to recruit me to hockey the rage boils. I just don't understand basketball and I really don't real right intruding on it, and football is too covered in unneeded mansterbaiting (i.e.: circle-jerking affirmation of generic manly things - think of the ridiculous products associated with, say, NASCAR and how they are gendered. I really hate it. There are advertisements on the bus in Newtown that are utterly repugnant, make no sense, and lean heavily on ersatz Canadiana. Can you imagine how much I love seeing them every day?
Today also had an overabundance of pizza and what must have been the most sugary cake ever constructed. This thing is the dental equivalent of a thermonuclear bomb. My teeth are still squeaky and I ate a third of my piece. It was associated with the departure of the one competent manager. They are bringing Hardass Magoo from America to whip our thunderfarting wonderdome of uselessness. The whole fucking thing is useless upon useless. Useless all the way down. I'm debating minor sabotage but I know that it won't do anything. I'm not radical enough to consider arson though I am starting to think about it to a disturbing degree. But my mood has been improved by the 6-3 victory the Detroit Tigers threw down tonight, so now I won't go down that route.
What, were you going to lament not hearing another whiny caterwauling pity-parade?
Fuck, I feel close to fugue. Let's see if I can't explain it. Basically, it works in the beginning like imagination. I retreat into fantasy very easily when I become distraught (like I did just there), and from there imagination recreates me. I wonder if that's a good Struggle in a Sentence? One of these days I'll do every survey. I can speak to all of them save for a few. Anyways, I spend too long in that sort of setting and it begins to define me. I can become someone else if I stand in fugue because while I am here I have a hard time with concepts like "I". I have troubles with identifying with my own concerns and needs (if you haven't noticed); the fugue starts to inform those concerns and needs and sort of mainline a bunch of habits and characteristics.
Let's try to use the current example. I'm currently in a bit of a fugue involving my plans for my own death. I intend to have the funeral first and be taken out by artillery or a similar exposive. This will be done as soon as I decide that I am done with living. If things get too boring or if I get too boring, I'mma start looking for a discount claymore sales rep. In that situation, I would imagine that I would be looking and feeling a certain way. I plan on wearing only the schlubbiest of attire on my death day. I won't be too upset but the situation around me must be very bleak for me to be here. I start moving into that bleak territory and I get informed as to how to fill the shoes of me in the fugue. At this point I have to stop actively encouraging it because it can overtake me if I'm not really careful and the result is me behaving as though a bunch of imaginary traumas were real. I'm playing make-believe and I'm too dumb to get out of it. I feel like a cat with a paper fucking bag. Most people grow out of this when they're...10?
Op! There it is! Suburban whiny times return! Get out your fixed-gear bikes and your camera apps! I want a tattoo from an important game. I actually just thought about getting Goofy and Max from the Super Nintendo game Goof Troop on my arms as a way to celebrate my relationship with her. That seems like a really cool idea. I also want something watercolour and a Skarmory. Maybe combine the two? Like Ho-Oh's golden trail from Pokemon Gold and SIlver! My mother would be so strongly discouraging me right now. I wish I could draw so I could actually see what I wanted in reality instead of in my mind. I'm the kind of person that graphic designers hate - I have a picture in my head but the worst explanatory power since Ronald Reagan and no artistic skills. It's neat to think about tattoos though. I'd also like to take Girlfriend to see the Tigers. If I can convince her. It's gonna take a lot of work to do that. It may be worth a try, though? I dunno. It feels weird to want things, but here I can make a list:
- Play new Europa Universalis IV expansion!
- See a Tigers game alongside a nice couple of days for Girlfriend!
- Go to Partytown!
- Go to my friend's house stateside!
Aww. I ran out of steam. I need to sleep. Goodnight, world. Goodnight.
My bus pass runs out soon. Goodbye, $130! Oooh, and rent and phone bill and A/C fees: $680 (I live with Girlfriend who pays rent too - I couldn't afford this without her)! And weed. And I can afford it all. Too bad that doesn't make me feel any better. Woohoo, temporary ticket to the Below-Average Bowlers' League.It sounds so great that I can't even afford the Shitmobile, Official Medium-Term enrollment in a life full of pinching pennies, half-baked vacations, and lame living spaces. I'm so grateful to look down the barrel of a life of making it. What joy. If I channel the cartoon Daria any harder your monitor will develop a pair of round black glasses and stare at you unblinking until you stop reading this.
I also am happy to report that the Tigers are up 6-3 at the top of the ninth. When I did it on my own terms, sports suddenly became more interesting. I have vowed to only be interested in baseball until I can confirm that I am not, in fact, a raging douchebag. There is an immediate and horrible association between sport and douchery in my mind. Whenever anyone tries to recruit me to hockey the rage boils. I just don't understand basketball and I really don't real right intruding on it, and football is too covered in unneeded mansterbaiting (i.e.: circle-jerking affirmation of generic manly things - think of the ridiculous products associated with, say, NASCAR and how they are gendered. I really hate it. There are advertisements on the bus in Newtown that are utterly repugnant, make no sense, and lean heavily on ersatz Canadiana. Can you imagine how much I love seeing them every day?
Today also had an overabundance of pizza and what must have been the most sugary cake ever constructed. This thing is the dental equivalent of a thermonuclear bomb. My teeth are still squeaky and I ate a third of my piece. It was associated with the departure of the one competent manager. They are bringing Hardass Magoo from America to whip our thunderfarting wonderdome of uselessness. The whole fucking thing is useless upon useless. Useless all the way down. I'm debating minor sabotage but I know that it won't do anything. I'm not radical enough to consider arson though I am starting to think about it to a disturbing degree. But my mood has been improved by the 6-3 victory the Detroit Tigers threw down tonight, so now I won't go down that route.
What, were you going to lament not hearing another whiny caterwauling pity-parade?
Fuck, I feel close to fugue. Let's see if I can't explain it. Basically, it works in the beginning like imagination. I retreat into fantasy very easily when I become distraught (like I did just there), and from there imagination recreates me. I wonder if that's a good Struggle in a Sentence? One of these days I'll do every survey. I can speak to all of them save for a few. Anyways, I spend too long in that sort of setting and it begins to define me. I can become someone else if I stand in fugue because while I am here I have a hard time with concepts like "I". I have troubles with identifying with my own concerns and needs (if you haven't noticed); the fugue starts to inform those concerns and needs and sort of mainline a bunch of habits and characteristics.
Let's try to use the current example. I'm currently in a bit of a fugue involving my plans for my own death. I intend to have the funeral first and be taken out by artillery or a similar exposive. This will be done as soon as I decide that I am done with living. If things get too boring or if I get too boring, I'mma start looking for a discount claymore sales rep. In that situation, I would imagine that I would be looking and feeling a certain way. I plan on wearing only the schlubbiest of attire on my death day. I won't be too upset but the situation around me must be very bleak for me to be here. I start moving into that bleak territory and I get informed as to how to fill the shoes of me in the fugue. At this point I have to stop actively encouraging it because it can overtake me if I'm not really careful and the result is me behaving as though a bunch of imaginary traumas were real. I'm playing make-believe and I'm too dumb to get out of it. I feel like a cat with a paper fucking bag. Most people grow out of this when they're...10?
Op! There it is! Suburban whiny times return! Get out your fixed-gear bikes and your camera apps! I want a tattoo from an important game. I actually just thought about getting Goofy and Max from the Super Nintendo game Goof Troop on my arms as a way to celebrate my relationship with her. That seems like a really cool idea. I also want something watercolour and a Skarmory. Maybe combine the two? Like Ho-Oh's golden trail from Pokemon Gold and SIlver! My mother would be so strongly discouraging me right now. I wish I could draw so I could actually see what I wanted in reality instead of in my mind. I'm the kind of person that graphic designers hate - I have a picture in my head but the worst explanatory power since Ronald Reagan and no artistic skills. It's neat to think about tattoos though. I'd also like to take Girlfriend to see the Tigers. If I can convince her. It's gonna take a lot of work to do that. It may be worth a try, though? I dunno. It feels weird to want things, but here I can make a list:
- Play new Europa Universalis IV expansion!
- See a Tigers game alongside a nice couple of days for Girlfriend!
- Go to Partytown!
- Go to my friend's house stateside!
Aww. I ran out of steam. I need to sleep. Goodnight, world. Goodnight.
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
31-May-2014
I have a baguette and a forehead full of sun. No, seriously - my skin doesn't burn (or at least does very rarely) and I'm pretty sure that is all that saved me from having a glowing death-forehead. I'm trying to write something but I am finding it very difficult. Day was fine - good food, good people, and not enough time playing EU IV - and I still have yet to listen to the newest episode. I wonder if the diary section got a nod? I really think this could help a lot of people like me. If there is anyone like me.
I'll have more to write tomorrow, I promise. Sorry...
I have a baguette and a forehead full of sun. No, seriously - my skin doesn't burn (or at least does very rarely) and I'm pretty sure that is all that saved me from having a glowing death-forehead. I'm trying to write something but I am finding it very difficult. Day was fine - good food, good people, and not enough time playing EU IV - and I still have yet to listen to the newest episode. I wonder if the diary section got a nod? I really think this could help a lot of people like me. If there is anyone like me.
I'll have more to write tomorrow, I promise. Sorry...
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
1-June-2014
Wow. June. The first month turn-over. Nicely done, team! I start today with the best news ever - I own a Detroit Tigers ballcap. Even though they lost to a weak-ass Mariner's lineup tonight. Lame. But hey. The Ballcap of Mediocrity set me up by giving me a hat to wear, and now I have a hat that I actually like to wear. That's awesome. Go Ballcap of Mediocrity! Girlfriend's sister is moving into a new place and it is utterly terrifying to her. So she takes it out on her family because why not. GIrlfriend is having a rough go of dealing with it and I totally understand why. That said, I feel really cloudy-headed for some reason. Got more weed, of course.
I'm feeling sidetracked by events beyond my control. Girlfriend's sister is being very difficult and made tonight's dinner with Girlfriend's family very awkward. Obviously I have to do something about the situation, but man is it hard to stay level-headed. I really need to work on myself because my parents are coming and I have a lot to be thinking about that I have been delaying and putting off and ugh. I feel like I'm doing nothing useful and that it's all going to bite me in the ass. Even worse, I casually made a statement about how my life feels like two ends of a tunnel, where the tunnel is the bus to work. It really struck me and for some reason I have been kind of bummed out ever since. At least my back demonstrated some receptivity to my workout yesterday, and a picture of myself that I took for a political candidate revealed that I look far slimmer than I feel. I literally look fatter to myself in the mirror. As fucking if I can't even look at my own fucking body straight.
After another exciting weekend, it's back to the grind. I'll be listening to a lot of podcasts, that's for damn sure. My iPod also reset itself and ditched all of my music (the third time this has happened). I'm in the process of rebuilding it but I have tomorrow morning so it should end up okay. I need to brush my teeth. Why does that feel like effort? Am I depressed or just a hypochondriac? It's so hard to fight my demons off long enough to want help - I don't want to deal with depression too. I especially feel edgy about pharmapsych after some "interesting" memories (not reliable but still scary) of my time in the Little Kid Psycho-Slammer. I feel so untrusting except here. I wish I knew why.
I suspect I'll read this soon and see how often I make reference to feeling down. If it's often enough I may just have to admit that I have a problem. I keep telling myself that and only recently has it been believed. I hope it isn't too late. It feels like it's too late...
Wow. June. The first month turn-over. Nicely done, team! I start today with the best news ever - I own a Detroit Tigers ballcap. Even though they lost to a weak-ass Mariner's lineup tonight. Lame. But hey. The Ballcap of Mediocrity set me up by giving me a hat to wear, and now I have a hat that I actually like to wear. That's awesome. Go Ballcap of Mediocrity! Girlfriend's sister is moving into a new place and it is utterly terrifying to her. So she takes it out on her family because why not. GIrlfriend is having a rough go of dealing with it and I totally understand why. That said, I feel really cloudy-headed for some reason. Got more weed, of course.
I'm feeling sidetracked by events beyond my control. Girlfriend's sister is being very difficult and made tonight's dinner with Girlfriend's family very awkward. Obviously I have to do something about the situation, but man is it hard to stay level-headed. I really need to work on myself because my parents are coming and I have a lot to be thinking about that I have been delaying and putting off and ugh. I feel like I'm doing nothing useful and that it's all going to bite me in the ass. Even worse, I casually made a statement about how my life feels like two ends of a tunnel, where the tunnel is the bus to work. It really struck me and for some reason I have been kind of bummed out ever since. At least my back demonstrated some receptivity to my workout yesterday, and a picture of myself that I took for a political candidate revealed that I look far slimmer than I feel. I literally look fatter to myself in the mirror. As fucking if I can't even look at my own fucking body straight.
After another exciting weekend, it's back to the grind. I'll be listening to a lot of podcasts, that's for damn sure. My iPod also reset itself and ditched all of my music (the third time this has happened). I'm in the process of rebuilding it but I have tomorrow morning so it should end up okay. I need to brush my teeth. Why does that feel like effort? Am I depressed or just a hypochondriac? It's so hard to fight my demons off long enough to want help - I don't want to deal with depression too. I especially feel edgy about pharmapsych after some "interesting" memories (not reliable but still scary) of my time in the Little Kid Psycho-Slammer. I feel so untrusting except here. I wish I knew why.
I suspect I'll read this soon and see how often I make reference to feeling down. If it's often enough I may just have to admit that I have a problem. I keep telling myself that and only recently has it been believed. I hope it isn't too late. It feels like it's too late...
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
2-June-2014
The Week of Happiness, Day One: Business (ft. Mr. Chimney)
I have been responsible for keeping my kid brother well-adjusted. I tell him the things he needs to know that the Catholic-Suburban Axis won't teach him. I taught him what to do about his suicidal father; I taught him about eating disorders and how the Catholic-Suburban Axis would press him into body uncertainty; I taught him about condoms and that sex is mad groovy. I've played Awesome Uncle for the Kid by using my own examples from my childhood - stories and bullshit I remember facing at his age - and to get there I need the musical cue to keep the story right.
Enter the Eminem Show.
The album was a huge part of my life as an eighth-grader - it informed my growing concern about bourgeois domination while being one of the ablest councillors a suburban white kid could ask for. Hearing the anger in songs like "Till I Collapse" was one of the first times that I saw a genuinely healthy outlet for an unhealthy amount of anger. That guy rapped - could I read my way to calm? Fatass 13-year old me sat with his CD player and a battered copy of the Communist Manifesto, alone and unloved, right beside the rusting basketball nets. That album was a megaphone, and through it I remember honing and transforming the constant pressure-splatter of anger into something less dangerous. I see some form of that anger in him and I had to tell him that it was okay to vent it by wandering away from the home.
When the kid brother hit 13, I threw down the Eminem Show while my folks were out to do some more Mental Combat Training with the kid. The song Business (an irreverent, misogynistic number channeling Adam West's Batman) came up and right at the line "bitches and gentlemen", the kid brother chimes in with "that's sexist. He didn't need to do that".
Fuck yeah. Not only did he get what I was putting down, but he was clearly able to use concepts like misogyny (essential to understanding the Catholic-Suburban Axis) and had remembered at least that much. Score one for me. We keep plowing our way through the album, introducing the kid to the anthematic Without Me before hitting the song Sing for the Moment. That particular song speaks to the nature of suburbanity and having to bury mental injury. It was a song I had never felt comfortable listening to, but my kid brother wanted to listen to it and we did. At the end of the song, he asked for the album. The torch has been passed, but passed with awareness and critical thinking. It's still one of his favourite albums, despite having to hide it from our parents (they didn't get the memo that Eminem is tame one decade on), and I know that I armed the kid with a tool that he could use. He had a place to hear and burn anger, but he has the space to find his own music. I hope I'm showing him that it's okay to have feelings. In that moment I felt like the fucking Free French Resistance handing off essential information without a hitch.
I fear what happens when the music stops. It feels good to recount happy stories! I'll put the best on as a survey because I don't want Paul to think me trying to have myself heard through volume.
The Week of Happiness, Day One: Business (ft. Mr. Chimney)
I have been responsible for keeping my kid brother well-adjusted. I tell him the things he needs to know that the Catholic-Suburban Axis won't teach him. I taught him what to do about his suicidal father; I taught him about eating disorders and how the Catholic-Suburban Axis would press him into body uncertainty; I taught him about condoms and that sex is mad groovy. I've played Awesome Uncle for the Kid by using my own examples from my childhood - stories and bullshit I remember facing at his age - and to get there I need the musical cue to keep the story right.
Enter the Eminem Show.
The album was a huge part of my life as an eighth-grader - it informed my growing concern about bourgeois domination while being one of the ablest councillors a suburban white kid could ask for. Hearing the anger in songs like "Till I Collapse" was one of the first times that I saw a genuinely healthy outlet for an unhealthy amount of anger. That guy rapped - could I read my way to calm? Fatass 13-year old me sat with his CD player and a battered copy of the Communist Manifesto, alone and unloved, right beside the rusting basketball nets. That album was a megaphone, and through it I remember honing and transforming the constant pressure-splatter of anger into something less dangerous. I see some form of that anger in him and I had to tell him that it was okay to vent it by wandering away from the home.
When the kid brother hit 13, I threw down the Eminem Show while my folks were out to do some more Mental Combat Training with the kid. The song Business (an irreverent, misogynistic number channeling Adam West's Batman) came up and right at the line "bitches and gentlemen", the kid brother chimes in with "that's sexist. He didn't need to do that".
Fuck yeah. Not only did he get what I was putting down, but he was clearly able to use concepts like misogyny (essential to understanding the Catholic-Suburban Axis) and had remembered at least that much. Score one for me. We keep plowing our way through the album, introducing the kid to the anthematic Without Me before hitting the song Sing for the Moment. That particular song speaks to the nature of suburbanity and having to bury mental injury. It was a song I had never felt comfortable listening to, but my kid brother wanted to listen to it and we did. At the end of the song, he asked for the album. The torch has been passed, but passed with awareness and critical thinking. It's still one of his favourite albums, despite having to hide it from our parents (they didn't get the memo that Eminem is tame one decade on), and I know that I armed the kid with a tool that he could use. He had a place to hear and burn anger, but he has the space to find his own music. I hope I'm showing him that it's okay to have feelings. In that moment I felt like the fucking Free French Resistance handing off essential information without a hitch.
I fear what happens when the music stops. It feels good to recount happy stories! I'll put the best on as a survey because I don't want Paul to think me trying to have myself heard through volume.
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
3-June-2014
The Week of Happiness, Day Two: A Vivid Scene of a Cafe in Paradise
My Girlfriend and I went to Malta in January. Neither of us quite knew to expect - Malta's rainy season is around that time - but what we got was paradise. This country is among the most perfect places I have ever seen. It didn't take long to realize that people were never walking alone on the island. We went for a wander and three separate people asked us if we needed a lift somewhere. We were staying in a place close to where the "12" bus to the capital Valletta stopped to take on passengers. One afternoon, my girlfriend and I decided to go for the sole purpose of having coffee at Malta's most luxurious cafe, the Caffe Cordina. The place is stunning - frescos of the history of the Maltese Islands adorned the walls, the floor is gleaming marble no doubt hewn from some impossibly-idyllic place, and the pastries sat lovingly arranged inside a spotless display case. We sat inside and had the most delicious pastries, sipped perfect coffees, and just...existed together. There was an almost overwhelming perfection to this place, this perfect place of glimmering equipment and spectacular servers and incredible desserts, and it was in part for me and my girlfriend. The feeling of a divine clockwork, a perfect harmony between all units which has existed before and will exist long after every single unit in it dies and is replaced. This totemic space and its rituals brought my girlfriend and I to a state of peace previously unknown to me. We talked and laughed and enjoyed the ambience of this place and, as we held hands under the table, I truly felt like an entire person, loved and wanted and meaningful in this time and place.
I'm kind of tearing up remembering it, really. Some part of me would be okay with returning to the Catholic fold if it meant access to a society like that. I can't wait to return to Malta and to feel that calm again. Living in Canada is like being living in a world where every Jesus on every crucifix is alive and judging you for your interests and hobbies. Picture that but with the Canadian flag/maple leaf being sentient and your caboose has arrived to Metaphor Station. I get accused of being "American" (an insult in this backwards land) for such heinous crimes as being a fan of the Detroit Tigers, not liking hockey very much (road hockey is fun - I have no interest in the organized stuff), not owning a Canadian flag, being a "downer" for telling people about the dark side of Canadian history, and the ever-popular sin of loving the stylings and writings of Rene Levesque (who is a personal hero of mine). In Malta, there is no hidden backstory. No ironic "peace fountains" using water without consulting a nation on the lake which, oh, by the way, hasn't had clean drinking water in 18 years (http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/thunder-b ... -1.2662256, if you want to cringe). Nobody bullies you for not giving a shit about the NHL. You just work, eat, live, and...probably get bored and become hateful. That's why I can't live there yet - I need to be mentally at a place where the magic of Malta won't be ripped to shreds.
Right. On to the next problem. Girlfriend is having a rough go dealing with her sister, who is...being very difficult. She can be snippy and, frankly, bratty when she's stressed. Which, having started a new job and confirming that she is moving out of her parents' house for the third time just recently, she very much is. Nice comma splice there! Basically, she is stressed and so is being bratty and it is draining my girlfriend. I hope that she will simply tell her sister that her behaviour is hurtful, because girlfriend feels hurt by her sister.
Also, I need to confess something. I'm doing this because I am very close to utterly flipping out my parents coming up to visit up in two weeks. Realizing how mentally unpleasant this sort of thing can be (it being necessitated by convocation, an event I am singularly uninterested in), I'm trying to stay happy. Any...tips? Dear Lord. I'm literally at "Ask the Audience" about my own life. What am I.
The Week of Happiness, Day Two: A Vivid Scene of a Cafe in Paradise
My Girlfriend and I went to Malta in January. Neither of us quite knew to expect - Malta's rainy season is around that time - but what we got was paradise. This country is among the most perfect places I have ever seen. It didn't take long to realize that people were never walking alone on the island. We went for a wander and three separate people asked us if we needed a lift somewhere. We were staying in a place close to where the "12" bus to the capital Valletta stopped to take on passengers. One afternoon, my girlfriend and I decided to go for the sole purpose of having coffee at Malta's most luxurious cafe, the Caffe Cordina. The place is stunning - frescos of the history of the Maltese Islands adorned the walls, the floor is gleaming marble no doubt hewn from some impossibly-idyllic place, and the pastries sat lovingly arranged inside a spotless display case. We sat inside and had the most delicious pastries, sipped perfect coffees, and just...existed together. There was an almost overwhelming perfection to this place, this perfect place of glimmering equipment and spectacular servers and incredible desserts, and it was in part for me and my girlfriend. The feeling of a divine clockwork, a perfect harmony between all units which has existed before and will exist long after every single unit in it dies and is replaced. This totemic space and its rituals brought my girlfriend and I to a state of peace previously unknown to me. We talked and laughed and enjoyed the ambience of this place and, as we held hands under the table, I truly felt like an entire person, loved and wanted and meaningful in this time and place.
I'm kind of tearing up remembering it, really. Some part of me would be okay with returning to the Catholic fold if it meant access to a society like that. I can't wait to return to Malta and to feel that calm again. Living in Canada is like being living in a world where every Jesus on every crucifix is alive and judging you for your interests and hobbies. Picture that but with the Canadian flag/maple leaf being sentient and your caboose has arrived to Metaphor Station. I get accused of being "American" (an insult in this backwards land) for such heinous crimes as being a fan of the Detroit Tigers, not liking hockey very much (road hockey is fun - I have no interest in the organized stuff), not owning a Canadian flag, being a "downer" for telling people about the dark side of Canadian history, and the ever-popular sin of loving the stylings and writings of Rene Levesque (who is a personal hero of mine). In Malta, there is no hidden backstory. No ironic "peace fountains" using water without consulting a nation on the lake which, oh, by the way, hasn't had clean drinking water in 18 years (http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/thunder-b ... -1.2662256, if you want to cringe). Nobody bullies you for not giving a shit about the NHL. You just work, eat, live, and...probably get bored and become hateful. That's why I can't live there yet - I need to be mentally at a place where the magic of Malta won't be ripped to shreds.
Right. On to the next problem. Girlfriend is having a rough go dealing with her sister, who is...being very difficult. She can be snippy and, frankly, bratty when she's stressed. Which, having started a new job and confirming that she is moving out of her parents' house for the third time just recently, she very much is. Nice comma splice there! Basically, she is stressed and so is being bratty and it is draining my girlfriend. I hope that she will simply tell her sister that her behaviour is hurtful, because girlfriend feels hurt by her sister.
Also, I need to confess something. I'm doing this because I am very close to utterly flipping out my parents coming up to visit up in two weeks. Realizing how mentally unpleasant this sort of thing can be (it being necessitated by convocation, an event I am singularly uninterested in), I'm trying to stay happy. Any...tips? Dear Lord. I'm literally at "Ask the Audience" about my own life. What am I.
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
4-June-2014
The Week of Happiness, Day Three: Goat Beer
Goat beer is fucking disgusting. I have forgotten its name, but it joined a retinue of beers including Zubr, Tiger, and some other animal-themed tallboy available to kids at the LCBO. The summer before my high-school class departed for university had a lot of farewell moments, but this one was the best. One of my best friends and I had decided to drink each one of the aforementioned tallboys and to use every brew as a chance to reflect on something personal. The event started sanely enough - we sat at his kitchen counter, the one we had sat at for years, and talked about how perfectionism and our upbringings had affected us. He was the first person I ever told about how painful my father was and is to me, but that's getting ahead of myself. After a couple of beers we decided to sit outside his backyard and stare at the stars. I had never felt so okay with another person before. As the night progressed we inexplicably decided to grab moving blankets and lie outside for the final beer (this was over the span of about 4 hours, so we aren't sloppy drunk). We talked about so much that night and I had never opened up about a lot of it before - not to countless therapists or psychologists, not to my parents, nobody. As the night wore on we tipsily discovered that planes were flying in the way of the stars we were watching. We drank our beers, looked at each other, and said:
"Fuck planes"
Fuck planes*.I don't know why, but saying that in unison confirmed in some irrational way that I was, in fact, getting through to one of the best human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He got it - and he was okay with it. We slept outside on those moving blankets and were woken up by a rainstorm at 6 in the morning. We spent the rest of the time playing old video games and as soon as I got home I wept with joy. That was a new experience. That moment felt like the world had changed channels. It came with the realization that I had been watching the Misery Network my whole life and that there was in fact other programming to witness. I may not always be able to find the knob, and I certainly won't have the energy to find the remote control, but just knowing that there was an alternative to feeling weaponized, self-destructive, and terrified of my demons gave me the strength to succeed in the first legal battle with my father. I learned the value of reaching out to people and that smoking weed every day was not the only means to feeling better.
I am kind of welling up remembering it because I had a shitty day and I just don't care about work. I felt miserable all day except at the years-old traditional breakfast spot and I don't know why. Maybe I can add depression to my List of Shame? Well, it's not like I'll ever know - my mother doesn't want me seeking help because it could "come back to haunt you" during yet more legal proceedings with my father. I guess if I sought help my father could claim that I had not recovered from childhood psychiatric damage (that he in large part caused) and that this renders me...unfit to be in court? I don't get it. Anyways, she controls access to my family doctor (as in, they are good friends and I can't assure my family doctor's silence in the matter) and what she has on offer is a scary Christian guy whose brochure took me three hours to proofread while I was bored on a train. That ain't gonna help me. Remembering happy things does though. I'm feeling like a bloated statue of myself taking root at a computer. I hate my job, I hate feeling pressed for time when I get up and miserable at work, I am absolutely terrified of my convocation (an event I dread), I am not getting a rush out of working out anymore...
I feel sepia. The forecast tomorrow is sepia, falling into dark at nighttime and returning to mostly sepia on Friday. I want wacky technicolour back.
One piece of good news, though - I got paid to jack off. I had only jerked it once today and that doesn't do it for me. Fuck yeah, petty proletarian revenge!
Is it selfish of me to hope that one of my Happy Moments gets read on the show? Even with me beating myself up I really like my Happy Moments. Jesus. I want to delete that so much. Goodnight, everybody!
*A derivative of this, "Fuck X", has been in use ever since as a toast before beers. I love it.
The Week of Happiness, Day Three: Goat Beer
Goat beer is fucking disgusting. I have forgotten its name, but it joined a retinue of beers including Zubr, Tiger, and some other animal-themed tallboy available to kids at the LCBO. The summer before my high-school class departed for university had a lot of farewell moments, but this one was the best. One of my best friends and I had decided to drink each one of the aforementioned tallboys and to use every brew as a chance to reflect on something personal. The event started sanely enough - we sat at his kitchen counter, the one we had sat at for years, and talked about how perfectionism and our upbringings had affected us. He was the first person I ever told about how painful my father was and is to me, but that's getting ahead of myself. After a couple of beers we decided to sit outside his backyard and stare at the stars. I had never felt so okay with another person before. As the night progressed we inexplicably decided to grab moving blankets and lie outside for the final beer (this was over the span of about 4 hours, so we aren't sloppy drunk). We talked about so much that night and I had never opened up about a lot of it before - not to countless therapists or psychologists, not to my parents, nobody. As the night wore on we tipsily discovered that planes were flying in the way of the stars we were watching. We drank our beers, looked at each other, and said:
"Fuck planes"
Fuck planes*.I don't know why, but saying that in unison confirmed in some irrational way that I was, in fact, getting through to one of the best human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He got it - and he was okay with it. We slept outside on those moving blankets and were woken up by a rainstorm at 6 in the morning. We spent the rest of the time playing old video games and as soon as I got home I wept with joy. That was a new experience. That moment felt like the world had changed channels. It came with the realization that I had been watching the Misery Network my whole life and that there was in fact other programming to witness. I may not always be able to find the knob, and I certainly won't have the energy to find the remote control, but just knowing that there was an alternative to feeling weaponized, self-destructive, and terrified of my demons gave me the strength to succeed in the first legal battle with my father. I learned the value of reaching out to people and that smoking weed every day was not the only means to feeling better.
I am kind of welling up remembering it because I had a shitty day and I just don't care about work. I felt miserable all day except at the years-old traditional breakfast spot and I don't know why. Maybe I can add depression to my List of Shame? Well, it's not like I'll ever know - my mother doesn't want me seeking help because it could "come back to haunt you" during yet more legal proceedings with my father. I guess if I sought help my father could claim that I had not recovered from childhood psychiatric damage (that he in large part caused) and that this renders me...unfit to be in court? I don't get it. Anyways, she controls access to my family doctor (as in, they are good friends and I can't assure my family doctor's silence in the matter) and what she has on offer is a scary Christian guy whose brochure took me three hours to proofread while I was bored on a train. That ain't gonna help me. Remembering happy things does though. I'm feeling like a bloated statue of myself taking root at a computer. I hate my job, I hate feeling pressed for time when I get up and miserable at work, I am absolutely terrified of my convocation (an event I dread), I am not getting a rush out of working out anymore...
I feel sepia. The forecast tomorrow is sepia, falling into dark at nighttime and returning to mostly sepia on Friday. I want wacky technicolour back.
One piece of good news, though - I got paid to jack off. I had only jerked it once today and that doesn't do it for me. Fuck yeah, petty proletarian revenge!
Is it selfish of me to hope that one of my Happy Moments gets read on the show? Even with me beating myself up I really like my Happy Moments. Jesus. I want to delete that so much. Goodnight, everybody!
*A derivative of this, "Fuck X", has been in use ever since as a toast before beers. I love it.
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
manuel_moe_g
- Posts: 3375
- Joined: October 3rd, 2011, 9:04 am
- Gender: Male
- Issues: Depression, Anxiety
- preferred pronoun: he
- Location: Orange County, CA
- Contact:
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
Goat beer and stars!
~~~~~~
http://www.reddit.com/r/obsequious_thumbtack -- Obsequious Thumbtack Headdress
http://www.reddit.com/r/obsequious_thumbtack -- Obsequious Thumbtack Headdress
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
5-June-2014
The Week of Happiness, Day Four: In Which I Went to Find Paul in Chicago (but he wasn't there so we did band stuff instead)
It was Grade 12 - the year before the First Big Goodbye. It was the debut of my legal interactions with my father of a kind that would see me unable to go to university for a year. It was a year where I smoked more weed than anyone reasonably should. It was truly an awfulsome year. I remember the good times fondly and the dark times with faint horror. There was in this particular year one event which was nothing but good. The school band had a contest in Chicago and my best friends were going. There are so many awesome memories: ordering way too much deep-dish pizza on the first night and swapping Bibles in peoples' rooms with slices of pizza; seeing the Chicago Philharmonic play Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique while reading the score alongside my favourite music teacher; the now-legendary Admiral Ackbar cereal dance which turned into a collective giggle-fest at the statement "it's a trap!" and won us a Spirit Award (for a Canadian anything to win in an American contest is unheard of. Wealthy American schooling blows the shit out of my provincial Catholic and public school systems. We were kind of a running joke); the morning runs to Denny's and the subsequent ordering of too much food; busking downtown on a gorgeous sunny day...it was all so magical. It was the only time that year when being without weed didn't upset me. It felt like being in a city that truly understood the culture of the area I lived in. Chicagoans have a lot in common with where I'm from. We're Great Lakes Buddies, as it were. It felt like being in the capital city of a region you really care about - that sort of swelling pride combined with perfect synchronicity and a sense of safety and familiarity. It wasn't quite home. It sort of felt like being the house of a relative you just met but immediately connected with. She may have scary choices in home decor and there may be things that pop up which alarm or upset, but at the end of the day you know that this is a cousin worth keeping in touch with.
Thanks, Chicago. And thanks, you guys! I'm really grateful for Moe - you do amazing work here, buddy. Am I okay to call you that? All the same, thanks for being awesome. I had a shitty day today and reading over last night's Happy Moment as a result of your message brought a smile to my face. Even though it doesn't feel like it is now, maybe this whole thing really is worth it! We're coming up on a month here and I've probably bored everyone to tears, but I'm really excited to share these things and seeing that people look at this really means a lot to me for reasons I don't really understand.
Until tomorrow!
The Week of Happiness, Day Four: In Which I Went to Find Paul in Chicago (but he wasn't there so we did band stuff instead)
It was Grade 12 - the year before the First Big Goodbye. It was the debut of my legal interactions with my father of a kind that would see me unable to go to university for a year. It was a year where I smoked more weed than anyone reasonably should. It was truly an awfulsome year. I remember the good times fondly and the dark times with faint horror. There was in this particular year one event which was nothing but good. The school band had a contest in Chicago and my best friends were going. There are so many awesome memories: ordering way too much deep-dish pizza on the first night and swapping Bibles in peoples' rooms with slices of pizza; seeing the Chicago Philharmonic play Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique while reading the score alongside my favourite music teacher; the now-legendary Admiral Ackbar cereal dance which turned into a collective giggle-fest at the statement "it's a trap!" and won us a Spirit Award (for a Canadian anything to win in an American contest is unheard of. Wealthy American schooling blows the shit out of my provincial Catholic and public school systems. We were kind of a running joke); the morning runs to Denny's and the subsequent ordering of too much food; busking downtown on a gorgeous sunny day...it was all so magical. It was the only time that year when being without weed didn't upset me. It felt like being in a city that truly understood the culture of the area I lived in. Chicagoans have a lot in common with where I'm from. We're Great Lakes Buddies, as it were. It felt like being in the capital city of a region you really care about - that sort of swelling pride combined with perfect synchronicity and a sense of safety and familiarity. It wasn't quite home. It sort of felt like being the house of a relative you just met but immediately connected with. She may have scary choices in home decor and there may be things that pop up which alarm or upset, but at the end of the day you know that this is a cousin worth keeping in touch with.
Thanks, Chicago. And thanks, you guys! I'm really grateful for Moe - you do amazing work here, buddy. Am I okay to call you that? All the same, thanks for being awesome. I had a shitty day today and reading over last night's Happy Moment as a result of your message brought a smile to my face. Even though it doesn't feel like it is now, maybe this whole thing really is worth it! We're coming up on a month here and I've probably bored everyone to tears, but I'm really excited to share these things and seeing that people look at this really means a lot to me for reasons I don't really understand.
Until tomorrow!
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
-
Mr.Chimney
- Posts: 63
- Joined: April 28th, 2014, 9:09 pm
Re: The Diary of Mr. Chimney
6-June-2014
I got sent home early because I didn't know off-hand how many boxes I had scanned when the Kazakh guy came around to ask. Apparently the answer "I don't know; check my computer screen. It's right there" said while hauling boxes to the scanning station. I went home with my alter telling me about how I should bring a can of AXE and a barbeque lighter and strategically burn things. I don't know what to think of that so I'm just leaving that here.
Right. Week of Happiness. Oh Jesus:
The Week of Happiness, Day Final: Vanilla Coke Night
The name says it all. The scene: 12-year old me, at the very bottom of the better part of my psychosis years. There's a sort of cycle to this alter-thing: my mental health plummets at age 5, then slowly climbs until age 11, then spikes at 11 and comes crashing down by 14. A huge spike comes up at 18 and I went into a decline until I hit rock bottom a few years ago, as denoted by the time when I passed out in a gym locker room after going to the gym for the second time that day at midnight after eating nothing but spinach and a chicken breast. I then met my girlfriend and with her help have crawled up sustainably since then. We have helped each other through our respective problems (Girlfriend is recovering from an eating disorder); we're basically mutual therapists living together. It's awesome.
This has nothing to do with Vanilla Coke Night. Basically, my best childhood friend and I decided to play Mario Party 3 while consuming an entire carton of Vanilla Coke. I should explain that one of the many reasons Canada sucks is that it has no access to Cherry or Vanilla Coke any more. But, for a brief and magical time it was there, alongside Count Chocula and Oreo Cereal-Shit. The health police came in and took all of that magic away but hell - for a brief time, Futurama was new on the air, Samurai Jack was playing on re-runs alongside Dexter's Lab and Powerpuff Girls (a show my parents relentlessly teased me for liking to the point where they bought me a Bubbles doll as a "cute joke"), and the only thing my money was used for was fast-food or a rental at Blockbuster. Holy shit does that date me squarely. Beans spilled - I'm 23. Those were some of the best years of my life. Live went to shit when the Blockbusters closed and the short-term, risk-free economy took hold. There was a better time than this. This moment really just sums the whole thing up. There was nothing cooler than playing video games and drinking too much soda and storing your allowance from cleaning your room until you could afford a game (2 months, for the record) was the biggest concern you had. No rent, no power bills, no work. Growing up was a mistake.
Maybe this will just segue into the two best points of my life. The first was Vanilla Coke time, the aforementioned magical time of Pokemon cards and glory. The second was near the end of high-school, when I could sit in the staff room with a coffee and had access to everything. I was famous. I was a star - the hellion in the tacky, oversized tweed jacket bought from a thrift store. I made fun of the Church, pulled pranks, played my trumpet, and felt loved. My mother was around more and she had calmed down after I had found cover for not going to Church (I got a retail job, which today is still probably my favourite job I've ever had). My kid brother idolized me and I walked him through the classic video games of my youth. I saw the Washington Nationals with a dear friend and teacher, went to New York and met a wonderful friend on a cruise ship. I had so many Happy Moments when I felt like I was a part of something, with a clear and delineated role, where I had the ability to improve and grow. I know I'm asking for something that doesn't exist but I wish I could work at a place where an...oops. About to go to racist territory there. I'm getting more of that lately. Wonder why? That said, drinking out of a fresh 2-4 of Waterloo Pilsner with a fresh baggie of dank and puff pastry to wrap around anything sweet is pretty cool. When I'm in the right mood, a lot of things are happy moments. They just go sour so quickly. I spend so much time stewing until I fugue. So, you know what? All told, not bad.
I hate my life. At least I can go looking for therapy now. My father threw in the towel for the final round of legal battles and I can seek help now. I can't wait.
I got sent home early because I didn't know off-hand how many boxes I had scanned when the Kazakh guy came around to ask. Apparently the answer "I don't know; check my computer screen. It's right there" said while hauling boxes to the scanning station. I went home with my alter telling me about how I should bring a can of AXE and a barbeque lighter and strategically burn things. I don't know what to think of that so I'm just leaving that here.
Right. Week of Happiness. Oh Jesus:
The Week of Happiness, Day Final: Vanilla Coke Night
The name says it all. The scene: 12-year old me, at the very bottom of the better part of my psychosis years. There's a sort of cycle to this alter-thing: my mental health plummets at age 5, then slowly climbs until age 11, then spikes at 11 and comes crashing down by 14. A huge spike comes up at 18 and I went into a decline until I hit rock bottom a few years ago, as denoted by the time when I passed out in a gym locker room after going to the gym for the second time that day at midnight after eating nothing but spinach and a chicken breast. I then met my girlfriend and with her help have crawled up sustainably since then. We have helped each other through our respective problems (Girlfriend is recovering from an eating disorder); we're basically mutual therapists living together. It's awesome.
This has nothing to do with Vanilla Coke Night. Basically, my best childhood friend and I decided to play Mario Party 3 while consuming an entire carton of Vanilla Coke. I should explain that one of the many reasons Canada sucks is that it has no access to Cherry or Vanilla Coke any more. But, for a brief and magical time it was there, alongside Count Chocula and Oreo Cereal-Shit. The health police came in and took all of that magic away but hell - for a brief time, Futurama was new on the air, Samurai Jack was playing on re-runs alongside Dexter's Lab and Powerpuff Girls (a show my parents relentlessly teased me for liking to the point where they bought me a Bubbles doll as a "cute joke"), and the only thing my money was used for was fast-food or a rental at Blockbuster. Holy shit does that date me squarely. Beans spilled - I'm 23. Those were some of the best years of my life. Live went to shit when the Blockbusters closed and the short-term, risk-free economy took hold. There was a better time than this. This moment really just sums the whole thing up. There was nothing cooler than playing video games and drinking too much soda and storing your allowance from cleaning your room until you could afford a game (2 months, for the record) was the biggest concern you had. No rent, no power bills, no work. Growing up was a mistake.
Maybe this will just segue into the two best points of my life. The first was Vanilla Coke time, the aforementioned magical time of Pokemon cards and glory. The second was near the end of high-school, when I could sit in the staff room with a coffee and had access to everything. I was famous. I was a star - the hellion in the tacky, oversized tweed jacket bought from a thrift store. I made fun of the Church, pulled pranks, played my trumpet, and felt loved. My mother was around more and she had calmed down after I had found cover for not going to Church (I got a retail job, which today is still probably my favourite job I've ever had). My kid brother idolized me and I walked him through the classic video games of my youth. I saw the Washington Nationals with a dear friend and teacher, went to New York and met a wonderful friend on a cruise ship. I had so many Happy Moments when I felt like I was a part of something, with a clear and delineated role, where I had the ability to improve and grow. I know I'm asking for something that doesn't exist but I wish I could work at a place where an...oops. About to go to racist territory there. I'm getting more of that lately. Wonder why? That said, drinking out of a fresh 2-4 of Waterloo Pilsner with a fresh baggie of dank and puff pastry to wrap around anything sweet is pretty cool. When I'm in the right mood, a lot of things are happy moments. They just go sour so quickly. I spend so much time stewing until I fugue. So, you know what? All told, not bad.
I hate my life. At least I can go looking for therapy now. My father threw in the towel for the final round of legal battles and I can seek help now. I can't wait.
"The Logos of domination has built its system, and what follows is epilogue"
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107
- Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization, pp: 107