Feelin’ all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin’

After my last “introspective” post, I have decided to continue along with examining the deepness that is Jeffrey. I hope you are interested enough to keep reading. Although I may come across as aloof or shallow or just very two-dimensional in person, that is just my rampant shyness making itself known. I am actually prone to deep fits of thinking, and it seems as if perhaps this blog is the best way to get those thoughts across. So, as usual, I have been pondering the “big” questions, such as fate, destiny, luck, coincidence and the place that other people fit within our lives. This follows along with my last post, because there I was talking about loneliness and all the misery that brings. So I have been thinking about how other people actually do fit into our lives. How do we know the people we know? What forces bring some people into our lives, and keep others out? Of course, distance and time ensures that you can only ever know a very tiny percent of the people around you. So that factor is pretty much out of your hands. But as you narrow down the group of people you can associate with, things get more complicated. Here is where fate, or destiny, or coincidence (call it what you will) seems to emerge. Your own role also gets much bigger at this level. Of all the strangers you see everyday (and the reality is you see more strangers everyday than you do your friends), I wonder what the odds are that you will ever associate or get to know any of them. Probably fairly small. Which makes me question then how we beat the odds everytime we actually DO meet a stranger and become friends, or more. It is actually pretty incredible when you think about it; to get to know someone in a sea of strangers you will never meet is an incredible stroke of luck. But perhaps it is not luck. Those who believe in destiny, or fate, might suggest that our lives are directed by something beyond us; that a plan exists for us and we are destined to meet these people, for better or worse. Who creates such a plan? Some would say a god-like figure. While I don’t necessarily believe in fate or destiny, it seems perhaps more plausible to suggest that it is the natural forces of the universe which direct us along. Are these forces intelligent? That’s a little beyond where I want to go with this. The point is it does not seem unreasonable to believe that we meet people for a reason. Whether that reason is actually already determined, or is the end result of our subconscious guiding us towards a goal without our conscious mind knowing, I do not know. The people we do meet then are special in different ways; some are in fact more special than others (and those people know who they are). Of course, we always meet people we do not like so I am not sure how they fit into the equation. I suppose I will leave that part “mystical” so I do not have ponder about it hahaha. Getting back to the point, I believe that in some ways we meet people for certain reasons. Perhaps in other parallel universes we meet other people (perhaps a tangent universe if you prefer ala Donnie Darko). If this is so, I would imagine we would turn out to be totally different people, because the people we know shape us in ways we do not even realize. I have known some people I have loved, some I’ve just liked, and some I’ve hated. However, they all have affected me in some way so as to change me to who I am now (and the more people I get to know, the more I will continue to change). I suppose this has just turned into a shout out to the special people out there I know. But I could have done worse I suppose. Give yourselves all a pat on the back for being my friends lol. I give you one in spirit. And yes, there is a subtle message in here if you happen to be looking for it. You wanted to be special? You are.

this one’s for you

I have been inspired tonight, by way of looking at old photos of people I do not even know, to write about the human condition. It is about damn time I said a little something about the species to which I belong to. It occurs to me that we humans are an incredibly lonely people. While we may search out material possessions, or spiritual enlightenment through the course of our lives, the reality is what we are really looking for is a connection with another human being. Our entire world is, by function of our being a each a self-contained unit, disconnected from us. We may experience somethings, or people, closer than we would others, but in the end we are only ourselves. We can never be another person, or a flower, or a tree, or a book or anything that is not us. Everything we do however is done with the purpose of getting closer to something or someone. The truth is none of us want to be alone. Sometimes that decision is made for us, sometimes we make it for ourselves out of fear, jealousy, guilt, or just plain stupidity. But our essence, our core being, demands, screams at us to seek out others, to find the connections by which we can realize we are not alone. We ask ourselves on a larger scale “are we alone?” everytime we look up at the stars and wonder what or who else is out there. Yet we do the same thing everytime we smile at someone, or think about someone. We so desperately want to answer that question on a smaller scale. It is at the bottom of everything we do. It is the driving impulse behind sex, behind love, behind every self doubt and every question we ask ourselves. Our greatest fear is being alone, whether that be self-isolation, or death itself. In others we find protection from the things that scare us most. We get the chance to give a little of ourselves to others, and get a little back (or alot, if you are lucky) in return. I cannot think of a greater gift to give someone, the gift of yourself. I do not mean that in an egotistical way, but in the greatest way possible. To tell someone else they are not alone, to show them that even though we are constructed alone we can transcend that limitation, is incredible. How many lives would become incredible if people just knew that they did not have to be alone, that we are all looking for the same thing? If we all realized that suddenly, and if we saw the faces staring back at us we would find life to be a million times better, and we could finally hope. Some people say hope is destructive, that you can fool yourself and waste your life hoping for something that will never come. I don’t believe that at all. Hope is one of the greatest things you can ever experience. I hope for a better tomorrow. And sometimes, even with all the doubt and terror in the world, I imagine it will come true.

garbage, part one. this is where i fail as a writer and blogger.

No edits. Just as it is. Not even complete.

I don’t know how to tell my neighbour that I think I saw his dead son today.

Understand, I was probably mistaken. It’s been fifteen years since I last saw Joshua, headed off to school one morning as I went out to pick up my paper lying beside the others on the small table which sat (still does) under the mailboxes. Joshua went like a blur beside me as he ran for the school bus, but I still remember what he wore (and even if I couldn’t the description was soon plastered on posters throughout the city): a blue shirt, two buttons; denim jeans that barely covered his high tops; and most importantly the hat. A cowboy hat, a real cowboy hat one of his father’s brothers had brought back from a trip to New Mexico. It was too big of course, and it almost swallowed his head. But I remember how excited he was to show it to me the day after he got it. I remember how funny I thought it looked that day he ran out to catch the bus. He had time to blurt out “Hi Mr. James!” as he ran by me, and he was gone, the bus doors closing behind him. His father, my neighbour Steve would be watching from his window a floor above as he told me he always did. The bus would move down the street quickly enough, turn and be out of sight. Had that day turned out like any of a thousand days like that I’m sure the memory would have long been gone. But that day wasn’t like anyone that came before, and it certainly wasn’t like the ones that came after.

Today started much like any of the ten thousand or so that have passed since that day when Joshua didn’t come home from school. I awoke with a slight ringing in my head, the sound of last night’s binging making itself known. Whatever sun there was outside wasn’t making it into my bedroom, one of the small favours I silently said a prayer for as I stumbled towards the washroom to assess the situation. The situation was not good as I soon saw, and didn’t improve much after a shower. The taste in my mouth overpowered the mouthwash I threw at it, and as the thought of food coming anywhere near my mouth sent my stomach into tumbles, it was a cigarette which seemed the only sensible alternative. Smoking with the slight disgust and unceasing fascination that an occasional smoker exudes, I made my way downstairs to retrieve my paper. It sat alone on the table, the last survivor of both a dwindling apartment population and/or a disdain for the printed news in general. There were no forewarnings however; in truth my memory of that time so long ago was hazy and there was nothing to associate what had happened with this day in particular. Routine is a killer, and after awhile you can smooth over those bumps which happen along the way simply by doing what you always do. With my paper in hand I retreated to my apartment. Along the way I passed by Steve’s the door shut and what looked like post-it notes stuck to the door. I counted five or six as I went by, not stopping to read what was printed on them. Strange women were always leaving such notes on Steve’s door. His ex-wife preferred to leave long written notes placed on the floor, usually held down by rocks or charming paperweights (once such I swiped for myself a few years back). I would wonder if she ever read those post-its. The thought was usually awkward enough that I quickly erased it. And anyways it wasn’t my business. I had never known his ex very well. She liked to spend alot of time in the apartment, only rarely coming outside when some of us would set up lawnchairs and sit beside the stairs watching people all over the block do similar things. Most of the time she would open their front window and silently tell Joshua to stay away from the street, or come inside if it was getting dark and the streetlights had started to come on. Steve and Joshua would exchange a look then, an inside joke none of us exactly got but we understood just the same. I don’t think she was particularly mean, or even bitchy. She just preferred to administer the household and let Steve have the fun. It seemed like an unspoken agreement between the two. It was no surprise when she left him once Joshua was gone. It wasn’t a mean thing; just a realization that the thing they had shared had left much like Joshua did: silently and without warning. Steve told me a few years later she had spend time in a hospital upstate, not quite a psychiatric ward but what Steve described as a haven for “rich bitches and depressed housewives”. She was neither really. I don’t think she ever really broke down in those horrible days that came after the police stopped coming around anymore. While Steve would emote violently, I never heard a sound from her. Her already withdrawn personality must have found a way to withdraw even further. One day she just left, carrying two suitcases, a winter coat (although it was July 10th and I couldn’t stop the sweat from coming off of me). She hailed a cab, and as I watched her get in (as did the rest of us lawn chair dwellers) Steve came outside and waved twice, then disappeared back inside. I swore I saw his face pressed against his window a few minutes later, looking away from the direction she had gone however. His was looking the other way, towards the school which remained out of sight five streets over. Maybe he was just looking for a yellow school bus.

thicke-headed.

Listen: J. G. Wentworth will get you cash NOW.

The old guy in those commercials has a way of breaking your heart. Whether he is reclining in a plush office chair against a white background, or roaming around a cheaply-appointed office that I am sure has one of those fake televisions made out of cardboard, he is certainly a charmer. All he has to do is rest that one finger on his chin like he does and I know that Old Man Wentworth is looking out for my best interests. Of course, I am sure the guy in the commercials has nothing to do with the actual company. Which makes me wonder why he was hired in the first place. Was there a casting call that said “one creepy, disturbed old guy needed for a series of low-budget commercials”? If so, I am pleased.

Today I stumbled across moments from an episode of one of my most-hated shows EVER, “Growing Pains”. It “pains” (HAHA!) me to actually give Alan Thicke any publicity at all, however the episode was a “very special” (as in “tonight on a very special episode of”) episode which may have in fact aired during sweeps. Either way, it was beyond stupid. That idiot Kirk Cameron and his two doofus buddies (mullets intact) ended up at a party where GASP COCAINE!!!!! was being served. Now because this was a “very special” episode, Kirk had a choice to make. Stay and do a line of blow with his friends so as to be cool, or make a big scene and get publicly annointed as a “loser” and then leave in a huff. I ask, why not leave silently and avoid a scene, with your dignity intact? Why not? Because then we would not have the great ending where Mr. Thicke himself gives his son a hug for doing the “right thing” while the studio audience goes crazy and gives a nice collective “AWWWWW”. What the fuck. This reminds me of one of the many “Fresh Prince” episodes which were “very special” ones. Even though I enjoyed that show, I always cringed at seeing Will and Carlton hug at the end of the show and hearing the audience erupt. They did it at the end of the episode where Carlton found drugs in Will’s locker and took them and danced like a fucking maniac then collapsed. They also did it when Carlton was robbed at an ATM and purchased a gun to apparently protect himself. They also did it on the various occasions where Will did something good but Uncle Phil mistook it until Will explained it and they hugged and Will had a surrogate daddy in Phil and so forth. Posh I say. They didn’t fucking cheer when Aunt Viv all of a sudden became a different woman in between seasons. I guess that’s what they call keeping the fourth wall intact.

Whew that took alot out of me. Sit Ubu sit, good dog. Ubu, by the way, is code for Tina Yothers. Stupid is code for Mallory’s boyfriend Nick. Jerkass is code for Skippy. That is all.

baxter stockman says “help me”

Tomorrow, if you are lucky enough to awake in a hovel on the Israeli/Lebanese border, you will find a glorious sight. Five shapes in the distance getting slowly closer, four of them jumping around like maniacs and the fifth walking with the help of a cane. If you care to listen closely, and if you are lucky enough to hear beyond the sound of gunfire and explosions, the sweet sweet sounds of teenagers will line your eardrums. However, these teens are here to save our Middle Eastern friends from their own disaster. These kids mean business. And if you happen to be a foxy television newsreporter, you may be lucky enough to get an exclusive with the saviours of the Levant. When that wise old rat put his hand (claw? paw?) on your shoulder and tells you “Ms. O’Neil, these sons of mine are here in the name of Jehovah”, do not worry. You will be safe (if you happen to be Israeli). Do not fear what you do not know. Do not fear giant mutated turtles, nor their wizened old rat master. They cleaned up New York City. They sure as hell will be able to clean up Gaza.

you taste like chicken

Let me say something about “People” magazine. Today I was perusing a year old copy of this magazine, because I happen to enjoy taking my time to catch up on “current” events and because Britney gets pregnant like clockwork so every year its like a time warp. AND as I am reading this issue, which happened to be from after Hurricane Katrina (and the Waves) of last year, it occurs to me how filthy and horrible and hypocritical and downright atrocious “People” is. I say this because this issue, which was devoted to the aftermath of the hurricane and all the people who lost their houses and livelihoods and such, is also the annual “best and worst” issue. What the fuck! On one page I see homeless folks who have lost everything, and with a turn of the page I get to find out that Paris Hilton dresses well. Goddamn it! Unbelievable. On a related noted, “US Weekly” has a section called “Stars…they’re just like us!”. I still can’t figure out if they are being sarcastic or not. I hope to hell they are. Or I will be cancelling my subscription at once.

Good times on the international front. The Israelis and Lebanese are going at it. Civil war in Iraq. Rising gas prices. Genocide and starvation in Africa. And you know what? CH News thinks that it is most important that within the first five minutes of the newscast to tell us a local interest story about a dog that was eaten by another dog. Lady, I am very sorry for your loss. But holy shit I despise soft news stories. And this wasn’t even a good soft news story. It made me cry. But damnit I want real news, even if it means I take my own life by the end of the depressing newscast.

God I love rainbows and puppies and bears and little children who shit everywhere and tend to vomit at innappropriate times. I’d like to visit Big Sur and come across an older couple making tender but passionate love in the field surrounded by lilacs and dandelions. I want to watch an execution on death row and yell out “it smells like bacon in here” as the man fries. I want to dig up a corpse and convince it to play a game of checkers with me in Central Park surrounded by old Jewish men. I want to find Dan Rather and beat him over the head as I scream “What’s the Frequency, Daniel?”. I want to do lots of strange things that the ghost of Josef Stalin can engrave on my tombstone when I’m dead. But I’m never going to die. Because I am a vampire. So I will live forever. Unless you stake me. So don’t stake me.

two thousand zero zero party over

Listen up, bitches. Jeffy’s back and this time it’s war. Or he means business. Or its the feel-good hit of the summer. Or he’s half of a pair of cops in a buddy comedy which is drawing favourable comparisons to Lethal Weapon (1).

I’m thinking about blowing up my plans to actually find a career in which I could put to use my useless degree, and instead going into the world of retail. I think I could have a hell of alot of fun at some stupid job which requires me to sell things to people. Seeing as how I would not care if I was fired for performing so poorly, I could really shake up a retail establishment. Maybe get my co-workers to help stage a musical in the middle of the store just for the hell of it. Or drink on the job and smile incessantly at people while I try to persuade them to purchase up and get that golden extended warranty so I can line my pockets with more beer money. The point is this option is looking more and more thrilling to me. Seeing as how I would be severely overqualified for any retail position, I can see myself having one hell of a fun time while knowing that I am intellectually superior to most of the forms of life shopping at “HMV” or “Sears”. What a snob I would so quickly become. Goddamn good times on the horizon.

God I don’t like skanks, sluts, whores, or if you are lazy “hos” (not “hoss” but “ho”s). Many guys seem to. Many guys also don’t mind being idiots. Point made. If you happen to be a slut and you are reading this, fuck off. You’re making my page filthy just by eyeing it.

Hahaha this entry is so angry and bitter but I’m on a roll and I don’t feel like being generous. I think we need more public slapping, just in general. Why do we limit it to women slapping their boyfriends, or the occasional Southern gentlemen with riding gloves who wants a duel? Let’s fucking slap it up. Slap everyone, they all deserve it anyways. Hell, slap me. What a bold statement it is to slap someone, especially a stranger. Are strangers really just friends you haven’t met yet? NO FUCKING WAY. Don’t take candy from strangers, they are just that: strangers. If I wanted to get to know them, they wouldn’t be strangers. And because you are a stranger I don’t need to hear your life story on the bus. I will in fact be a bastard and ignore you. Just warning you now.

How does one “die hard”? Let’s say for a moment that one chose to “die hard”. What would this entail? Perhaps it is easier to ask how one dies easy. Maybe you slump to the ground or something. But dying hard? Do you make a commotion? Scream and yell? I bet you yell “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” to die hard. Is that possible to beat? It must have been cause the next movie was “die harder”. So if you can believe it you are forced to actually put more work into dying. However that is not the worst. The worst is dying hard “with a vengeance”. Listen if you are dead there is no vengeance. There can’t be. You aren’t coming back for the vengeance. Die Hard 4 better be called “die hardest so that you can’t die anymore”. Problem solved. God what a way to come back to blogging. Fireworks, lightning, and the smell of sweet sweet love is in the air. Jeffy’s back.

Clever girl. *Munch*.

This is the last time I am going to try to write this post. For whatever reason I cannot write it, try as I may. This is it. I will write down a few funny things from the weekend, then hopefully next week come up with something irreverant and stupid to write about as I usually do. Here you go. No laughs guaranteed, as you really had to be there. Plus I am tired of this blog now and want to stay the hell away from it.

“Coins, stamps, guns”: sign seen on a store on the way up. Strange, disturbing combination of items to sell. One of these things isn’t like the others. And so forth.

“the keyman”: at a restaurant by the side of the highway, the “keyman” has been flipping burgers for over forty years. His son is also apparently buried out back (or at least memorialized on a large rock), which led us to believe his break times must be incredibly sad and uncomfortable.

“you can taste my mother on these cookies”: an unfortunate comment made by yours truly. I was merely mentioning that my mother had baked some peanut butter cookies which we were enjoying, however it came out the wrong way and was enjoyed in the most devilish way by Chris Chambers.

Chris Chambers almost nude, in a bra: drinking games tend to bring out the worst in yourself and the sexiest in others. This is no exception. As the game got progressively stranger (at one point every sentence had to include a swear word and end with “teddy bear”, leading to such insults as “go fuck yourself, you dirty fucking teddy bear”), Chris lost more clothes until he was forced to wear a bra and pose for a picture. I am still gagging.

I really cannot think of anything else right now. Sorry for such a shitty blog. I need to recharge the writing batteries for awhile. In the meantime, watch out for velociraptors.