You’re wrong if you think you are more obscure. You’re wrong if you think you are more obscure. You’re wrong if you think you are more obscure.
Pigeons are my mortal enemies
When I am on my bicycle I am faster than everyone but middle-aged men and women because I travel at reasonable, efficient speeds, and men and women in their middle ages travel too quickly because they are worried about death and afraid. Sometimes the way they like to challenge me is frightening, because they are bitter about lost youth, and if I ever get in their way I know they would not flinch at the idea of pushing me on the ground, which they did once, wrecking my bike.
In the bathroom on my way out of the hospital, my backpack in the corner by the door. The doorknob twisting frantically and some uhhing and grring and other frustrated mumblings, the door handle continuing to twist as I sit on the toilet and watch and say “Someone’s in here”, in a voice that’s not meant to be anything but comes out a bit smarmy and annoyed. Justified, maybe, because the handle moves in a way that I don’t like and it jitters too much and it really seems as if someone’s trying the “coin trick” and trying to get inside.
I think that’s it but just as I am finishing up I hear heavy wailing with the words “Help me! Help me!” shouted loudly in a thick Eastern European accent and the throbbing of the woman’s voice is terrible like she is leaking blood out of her abdominal cavity. I hurry to get out but hilariously need to flush and wash my hands. My flush comes just as a nurse or doctor reaches her, it’s like an exclamation mark and when I finally exit the room there are five people surrounding the wailing woman and her daughter, who’s just passed out in a chair.
“Oh, she’s just passed out,” I think.
I am completely blank.
It’s a cliché at Queen and Yonge, like something out of a high-energy cartoon. Two businessmen in suspenders, white shirts, and ties, are driving SUVs side-by-side in anger, honking and carrying on like young brothers tussling in line. The two men stare into each other’s eyes and fight for position, hating the other man’s guts. Pedestrians, cyclists and other cars are nervous, because if it wasn’t such an inconvenience the two men would run over every single thing in their path.
Later I’m drag-raced by a Discount trunk, and under a bridge a pigeon almost kills me, because pigeons are my mortal enemies.
How bizarre it is that in the future an ordinary person might casually express an emotion using Orson Welles’ clapping hands.
anyway when I was washing the dishes from the vegetarian chili, the best lisa has ever had the water smelled like minestrone soup
just like anna the old italian woman, who watched us and wrestling, used to make, but lisa refused to see for herself because the concept of smelling used-up sudsless dishwater is unappealing, probably for everyone, and I didn’t notice because it came one-at-a-time in grades, and the smell itself I found slightly comforting, and nostalgic.
In the Future Everyone Lives in an Art Museum
Sometimes I get in fights with my neighbour Sam the plumber, who I believe is deranged. On the odd nights I forget to lock the door he comes into my home while I am sleeping and fucks around with my things, most usually my cans, which he throws about, making such a mess and racket that you wouldn’t believe. I tackle him to the floor, usually, and whisper diplomatic-sounding words in his ear, or else I chase him out with a large iron-studded plank that I keep for this purpose.
On the days I am feeling diplomatic I tell him to ‘Calm down’, ‘Calm down’, ‘Calm down’, and I say ‘What are you doing Sam, this isn’t even your place.’ Sometimes he will go on raging like a maniac and I will scream in his ear and push off and run to grab my plank before he wises up and arms himself with a can or something else. Other times he snaps out of it easily enough and says things like ‘Sorry, Neville,’ or ‘I just don’t know what comes over me.’ Those are the days that I say sorry too, for tackling him, and together we pick up the cans and mop up the ones that have split.
It is our custom to have tea. We have tea often, for it is a soothing balm that calms our spirits and makes us forget all of the depressing wonders and truths about the world. When I am feeling diplomatic and Sam is diplomatic back we never part without having a cup or two, and discussing all of various things going on. It is important to keep on like this, for it is a sin to hold grudges, and besides, Sam doesn’t mean what he does. You have to make allowances for the few people you got, and to hold onto them as if they were fastened to you with bolts of thick iron, even if you suspect they may be deranged.
When you drop names like Heath Ledger or Anderson Cooper or, I don’t know, the Jonas Brothers, you are immediately googled. It’s bizarre. I barely even know who the Jonas Brothers are, but now that I have invoked their name, I am confident that I will receive many visits from ravenous fans interested in devouring them. Especially if I hint at some hidden secret of theirs that I have picked up through privelege, such as: did you know that Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers have been known to occasionally participate in all-night sessions of– I can’t even bring myself to say it. Pictures! Pictures! Pictures!
Maybe a project is to insert a distinguished (and perhaps related) picture of some celebrity or whatever into every post and see how that works out, except I don’t really want to do that. Maybe I will just blog daily about the Large Hadron Collider, as well as the Superbowl, and what Anderson Cooper has to say about hurricanes and war, and that tantalising scandal involving the Jonas Brothers.